


my head is bloody, but unbowed

by NorthernRanger



Series: Invictus [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, And Harry finally gets a chance to be a nerd about it, Arithmancy (Harry Potter), But i don't write romance?, Dimension Travel, Even if Harry's not having fun, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Harry is such a nerd, Healing, I have other things I should be writing but this won't get out of my head so here you go, Is this tag list getting longer every time I update? why yes, Magic is Awesome, Oops, Poor Harry, Runes, Slow Build, Study of Ancient Runes (Harry Potter), Time Travel, Trauma, Wizarding World (Harry Potter), Worldbuilding, Yes it Is, and he was trying so hard just to get through school alive that we never knew it, because this is my playground and I'm having fun playing in it, but fluff later, first wizarding war, i don't know how to tag things, i would say slow burn, is that even a tag?, mostly angst, obligatory time travel fic, ok i said mostly angst but let's be real. mostly fluff, write the fic you wish to see in the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 76,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernRanger/pseuds/NorthernRanger
Summary: Once again, she lifted the spell, and the wizard behind him moved forward. He reached down and took hold of Harry’s arm, pulling his shaking body up and twisting his arm behind him. “We should take him to the Dark Lord,” he said, and Harry’s heart beat wildly. Voldemort was dead. The war had ended. What was going on?
Relationships: Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody & Harry Potter, Alice Longbottom/Frank Longbottom, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Nicolas Flamel/Perenelle Flamel (Harry Potter)
Series: Invictus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067300
Comments: 398
Kudos: 931





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Invictus by William Ernest Henley
> 
> If you can't tell, I'm not used to tagging things. I don't post much of what I write, but this one wouldn't leave me alone. If you think there's a tag this work should have, let me know! I did tag it for graphic violence - it will most likely never go beyond what is in this first chapter. If it does, and I need to change the tags, I will.
> 
> Reviews make me happy! And they let me know people are waiting for chapters, so I prioritize. I have a little time yet before I'm giving my original novel my attention for Camp NaNo July, so if you like this, leave a comment below and make my day!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

_Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the pit from pole to pole,_

_I thank whatever gods may be_

_For my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutch of circumstance_

_I have not winced nor cried aloud._

_Under the bludgeonings of chance_

_My head is bloody, but unbowed._

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

_Looms but the Horror of the shade,_

_And yet the menace of the years_

_Finds and shall find me unafraid._

_It matters not how strait the gate,_

_How charged with punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate,_

_I am the captain of my soul._

The explosion had taken him completely by surprise.

The Battle of Hogwarts had ended, and they were at peace, despite the healing and mourning that was still going on all across Britain. It had only been a few days since the last funeral had taken place, and Harry was tired. But the weeks of staying over at Hogwarts, helping to clean up the halls and repair the school, talking to families when he was asked and avoiding people when he could had helped, a little, to make him breathe again. Voldemort was gone. The war was over. He wasn’t being hunted anymore, people weren’t out there dying, the Ministry was in shambles, but no longer hunting down muggleborns and terrorizing people.

When it was all over and the dust had settled, he was left a little at a loss. He was seventeen, and he had spent the last year running and fighting and trying to survive, usually with no one but Ron and Hermione for company, and the time had taken its toll. He had collapsed into a bed at the first opportunity, and for once, his sleep was not haunted by Voldemort in his dreams.

Now, a month later, he was almost eighteen, and finally beginning to recover. He, Ron and Hermione had all begun to put on weight again, helped along by the not inconsiderable contributions of Mrs. Weasley’s efforts to load all their plates at every meal. He was able to sleep again, for the first time in years, without worrying about Voldemort, horcruxes, or death eaters. His dreams were still haunted by the memories of those they had lost, but even that was an improvement compared to the link the horcrux had created into his mind.

The relief of the end of the war and the jubilation of their victory had lasted for only a little while before the losses of all those who had died had really struck them, and in the last month, Harry had been to more funerals than in all of his life. They had lost so many. Teddy was with his grandmother, and Harry had clung to him, desperately, when they had buried Remus and Tonks. The Weasleys were the closest thing Harry had to family, and they had been hit hard by the loss of Fred. None had taken it harder than George, and he walked around as a pale shadow of himself. Mrs. Weasley bustled around, feeding everyone and caring for them, and breaking down in tears every time she accidentally set out an extra place.

The wounds of the war might be healing, but the scars were still there, and some of them went deep.

Harry had been trying to keep busy as well. He had become a comforting figure for much of the wizarding world – a living reminder that they had won, even in the face of all they had lost. He wanted nothing more than to disappear into the Burrow, or Grimmauld Place, or perhaps even Hogwarts, and rest a while, away from the expectations of everyone, away from the eyes and the whispers and the cheers. But Kingsley, as the acting Minister for Magic while the Ministry tried to organize enough to have an election, had asked him to be around. Not like Scrimgeour had, asking for visible support of the Ministry, endorsements, and a way to capitalize on his fame, but just asking him to appear in the wizarding world regularly.

“Everyone is shaken, Harry,” Kingsley had told him calmly when Harry had protested the idea, “And the last year was a terrible one. Just seeing you alive and being reminded that it’s over – that can do wonders. You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to, you don’t need to make any speeches, just – let people see you, Harry. Let them remember that we won.”

Harry had been convinced after the first rumor of his death went around and panic broke out among a group of witches and wizards in the Leaky Cauldron when they heard the rumor. He didn’t intend to do anything political, but he had found other ways to be a visible presence. With Ron and Hermione at his side, he had begun helping with cleanup efforts and restoration wherever needed. Lifting rubble in Diagon Alley, rebuilding the halls of Hogwarts, and even taking on some projects in the Ministry – transformed by its time controlled by Voldemort and his supporters, there was much there to be set to rights.

Keeping busy had helped push back the grief as well, and he knew Ron and Hermione felt the same. It was a relief to have them at his back, even though he knew the war had ended. He felt like Moody sometimes (and a pang of grief had hit him at the thought, but he pushed it forcibly back), with his constant vigilance and his twitchy wand hand.

Kingsley had come to them toward the end of the month and taken them down to the level of the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort’s supporters in the Ministry had sacked the Department on his orders, searching for anything that could help them in the war. And he certainly hadn’t wanted other wizards to know more than him about magic, Harry had thought, looking at the destruction. They had decided to walk through the department and see what was worst hit before deciding where to start. Kingsley had told them he wanted them, specifically, in case others were inclined to take something out of the department or experiment with unknown magics. Most of the Unspeakables had been tortured or killed, some had joined Voldemort, and others had fled, but none remained who were able to come help that they could trust. Kingsley had hoped that they could at least clean up the Department until some of the surviving Unspeakables were well enough to come back or returned from wherever they had gone into hiding.

It was then that Harry’s instincts betrayed him. Walking through the department, he heard a hiss of air behind him, and spun on instinct, automatically deflecting the burst of magic that flew on him and sending a spell back before he realized it wasn’t an enemy – it was something that lay, crushed, in a pile of rubble. Hermione gasped beside him, and he just had time to meet her horrified eyes and throw up a shield before his spell connected, and the world vanished into a flare of light and sound.

Harry curled instinctively into himself as he hit the ground hard. His head was pounding, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his head. He groaned, blinking through the pain, and fought to sit up and see what was going on. Shouts and screams had erupted around him, and he thought for a moment he was back in the Battle of Hogwarts. It felt like a battle, but he knew it couldn’t be – they were in the Department of Mysteries. Where were Ron and Hermione? He pushed himself up against a wall as his vision settled, and saw cloaked figures firing off spells around him as people screamed and fled. He wasn’t in the Ministry anymore.

He was leaning against a brick wall, half crumbled by a spell, in what looked to be Muggle London. A building near him had erupted into flames, and even as he struggled to his feet, another was hit by a spell that caused the top floor to crumble into dust and rubble, raining it down upon the road. He reached for his wand, panicking when it wasn’t in its holster in his sleeve, looking around frantically before he spied it a few feet away.

Around him was ash and dust, and the cloaked wizards were laughing as they shot spells at those too injured to get away – at muggles, he realized, horrified, with no way to defend themselves. Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be seen, but he pushed the worry aside. He couldn’t afford to wonder what had happened right now. Not in the middle of a fight.

He threw himself forward, a crystalline shield bursting from the end of his wand and shimmering into existence between the muggles and the wizards. Their laughter stopped, surprised, and they turned to face him. He was already moving. Red light shot toward the closest wizard, catching him off guard and throwing him backward, stunned. Another three stunners were on their way by the time he fell, and only one of the wizards got a shield up in time.

But there were still four wizards left, and all their attention was now fixed on him. In the back of his mind, he registered their masks, their hoods – the Dark Mark seared into the sky above him. He didn’t stop to wonder why the remnants of the Death Eaters would make their move now. Spells shot toward him, ones he didn’t recognize. Ropes of fire, a curse that screamed as it flew past his ear, the Unforgivables. He summoned some of the rubble, deflecting the spells and hitting one of the wizards. He heard the crunch of a breaking bone, and summoned the wizard’s wand, hitting it with a blasting curse midair and reducing it to splinters. The wizard swore at him viciously. Three left.

He twisted to avoid another curse and stumbled into the way of another. It caught him on his side, and he shouted in pain as he felt his rib snap and the side of his chest cave in. He dove for the closest building, buying himself just enough time to snap off a spell to stabilize his side, and another to wrap it in bandages.

Outside, a girl screamed.

 _The muggles_ , he thought with horror, and pelted back out into the fray. They were waiting for him. One of them – a witch, he realized, hearing her cackling – was holding a muggle girl under the Cruciatus. The other two shot spells at the doorway the moment he stepped out into the open again, and it was only a last-second shield that saved him. Even then, he was pushed backward by the force of whatever they had cast. As the two remaining Death Eaters engaged him, the witch strode toward the muggles. He fought desperately, throwing spells as fast as he could, trying to take down his two opponents in time to get around them. One of them he caught with a bludgeoning hex, but he couldn’t follow it up, forced to dodge by the other one’s killing curse, a sickly green light that slammed into the wall beside him.

They were splitting now, moving off to each side of him, and his eyes moved quickly to try and keep them both in view. If he waited, he could dive between them and get to the muggle girl. The other muggles had mostly fled, though several bodies lay on the ground, dead. One or two more were clearly injured, but still moved weakly, badly injured. And one woman had crawled, bloody leg dragging behind her, but she moved toward the fight rather than away, eyes fixed desperately on what Harry realized must be her daughter. A broken wand lay on the ground beyond, and he realized that she, at least, was a witch. But she wouldn’t be able to help.

 _I have to get to them_ , he thought, but the death eater witch got there first. She ended her spell, and moved instead toward the terrified girl, hoisting the child up by her hair and digging her wand into the girls’ throat.

“Drop your wand, whoever you are,” she sang out, looking right at him. The other two Death Eaters kept their wands up, but they had stopped casting. He froze, staring at the girl in front of him. Her eyes had fixed on him, and her voice had fallen silent, but he could see the tears rolling down her face. Her mother pulled herself forward another foot. “Please! Please, please, not my daughter, please let her go.”

The witch kicked the woman away and didn’t take her eyes off Harry. “Drop it, now, or I’ll kill her.”

With numb fingers, Harry let his wand fall from his hand. The witch smirked, moving her wand to fix on his heart. He sensed more than saw the wizards to each side of him doing the same. She shook back her hood and pulled off her mask, and Harry stared, uncomprehending, into delighted, maddened eyes. He was looking at Bellatrix Lestrange.

She shoved the girl violently away from her, where she trembled, crying, and her mother clutched at her desperately, holding her in her arms.

“Try anything and I kill them,” Bellatrix said. One of the other wizards moved to stand behind him, out of his sight. The wizard whose wand he’d broken stood glared at Harry with hateful eyes. “What are you waiting for? Kill him!”

“But aren’t you interested?” she said softly, dangerously. “No one knew we’d be here. The Aurors haven’t even arrived. None of Dumbledore’s little pet wizards are here.” _Dumbledore_ , thought Harry wildly, _Dumbledore’s dead! So is Bellatrix!_ “So how did he know to be here? And who is he, to fight so well against so many of us?” She spoke to the wizard beside her, but her eyes were on Harry. She prowled forward until she was right in front of him. He looked at her silently and did not flinch. She pressed closer and put her wand to his cheek, trailed it down the side of his face. “Well, little wizard?” she asked softly. “Who are you? How did you know we would be here today?”

His whole body taut with tension, ready to move and knowing he couldn’t, he thought wildly, but could give no answer. Her face twisted in anger, and she stepped backward, leveling her wand at him once again. “Crucio!”

He screamed, pain consuming his world, and his legs refused to hold him. He fell to the ground, shaking and writhing with the pain of it, unable to think, tears building in his eyes.

It stopped. “Who are you?” she hissed out. “Why are you here?”

He spat out blood from biting his tongue and did not answer. “Crucio!” she screamed again, and the pain hit, and he could think of nothing.

Once again, she lifted the spell, and the wizard behind him moved forward. He reached down and took hold of Harry’s arm, pulling his shaking body up and twisting his arm behind him. “We should take him to the Dark Lord,” he said, and Harry’s heart beat wildly. _Voldemort was dead. The war had ended! What was going on?_ Doubt overtook him, suddenly, and he wondered – what if he was alive? What if Bellatrix hadn’t died at Hogwarts? _No,_ he thought, _Mrs. Weasley killed her, we saw her body – besides, she’s too young- Much too young, he thought suddenly. Did she have a daughter somewhere? Did the Lestranges have kids? But how can he speak of the Dark Lord? Voldemort’s dead! We destroyed all the Horcruxes!_

As his legs stopped shaking from the spell, he steadied himself. His head had been hanging limp from the pain, and as he straightened, his eyes caught on his wand, discarded at his feet where he’d dropped it. _I only need a second_ , he thought desperately. But they weren’t going to give him that. The witch raised her wand again and he tensed, waiting. Her wand pressed right up against his neck, trailed down to his chest. “Crucio,” she whispered.

He thrashed in the wizard’s grip, screaming. The world whited out, and faded back in, and the pain went on. The wizard behind him held him tightly, causing him to wrench on his arm uncontrollably as he struggled to get away, to make it stop-

And then it was over, and he hung limply from the other wizard’s grasp. _You’ll only get one chance at this_ , he thought, all his energy fixed on the one thought he had been able to hold onto. _Get to my wand._ He could hardly control his arms; he didn’t even try to get his feet under him this time. They had to think he was done, that he couldn’t move, that he’d given up the fight. And he nearly had – if this failed, there would be no second chance. _Get to my wand. Get to my wand._ It repeated over and over in his head, and he clung to it.

His chance came when loud cracks filled the air around them, and suddenly there were more figures there. The Death Eaters spun, wands coming up, and Harry kicked out backwards, forcing himself out of the wizard’s grip and falling to the ground. Spells flew out around him, and he grabbed his wand and stumbled, shaking, to his feet. Aurors stood around them, encircling the Death Eaters – and him with them. He dropped quickly back to the ground, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, and crawled toward the woman holding her daughter. Hands shaking, he traced his wand through the air, putting up one of the wards he’d learned on the run the last year. He knew it wasn’t done well – it wouldn’t hold long – but it might be enough to make sure that none of the combatants noticed them until the fight was over.

The Aurors were winning, and the Death Eaters seemed to know it. They went for the others that Harry had taken out, grabbing them and apparating away. One of the buildings was still burning, and the crackling filled the air. Rubble lay strewn all around, and the sudden absence of dueling made the gasps of one of the injured muggles sound loud in his ears. The Aurors were looking around, one of them directing a stream of water onto the fire. Harry let the ward fall.

They jumped at the sudden appearance of another wizard, a witch, and a child, and either they remembered that he’d been near the Death Eaters when they arrived or they reacted on instinct, but four wands were immediately leveled at his chest. He staggered to his feet one more time, and one of them shot a spell. The witch beside him screamed as it hit, and ropes snaked around him, tying his arms to his sides. They pulled tight, and he gasped as they tightened on the bandages covering his chest. The pain spiked, and the world faded. He felt cold concrete under his cheek, but his eyes wouldn’t clear, and the world was blurred and white. Above him he heard a few faint voices.

“…saved us… what were you… thought he…”

The voices faded, and his eyes drifted shut.

When he woke, he was lying in a bed, staring at a white ceiling. His first thought was of the hospital wing, and he asked, “Did I fall off my broom?” It came out only as a weak mumble. Then his vision cleared, and he realized he wasn’t in Hogwarts, and Ron wasn’t beside him. The white ceiling belonged to St. Mungo’s Hospital, he realized, and a medi-witch stood over him, slowly waving her wand down his body. She stopped as he spoke and smiled gently down at him in a way that reminded him a little of Molly Weasley.

“Oh, you’re awake! How are you feeling, dear?”

He took a moment to consider this question. The events of the last day began to come slowly back to him. The Department of Mysteries – an explosion – a battle…

“Where are Ron and Hermione? Are they alright? And the girl – the one with her mum – did they make it out?” he asked, sitting bolt upright as he remembered.

“Mrs. Smith and her daughter are both quite alright,” the witch assured him, “You were quite the hero. But the other two – well I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the witch said, gently easing him back down with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s really too early for you to be moving, you know.”

“There, that’s better,” she said, but Harry gaped at her. Everyone knew Ron and Hermione, now the war was done. They’d all been in the papers so many times, and they’d stuck together, the three of them, during their work after the war.

“Now, dear, what’s your name then? I’m terribly sorry, but we haven’t been able to find any records, and your wand hasn’t identified you properly. It’s not at all usual procedure,” the witch said as she fussed with the bedcovers.

An impossible thought hit him then. They’d been in the Department of Mysteries. He’d thought he’d seen Bellatrix Lestrange. The wizard in the street had talked about a Dark Lord. The medi-witch didn’t know Hermione and Ron, and now, she didn’t recognize him. And the hospital couldn’t identify his wand…

“Harry,” he said. “My name’s Harry.”

She reached for a clipboard hovering next to his bed, and it zoomed into her hand. “Last name, dear?”

At that moment, Alastor Moody barged into the room, and Harry nearly stopped breathing. It was unmistakably him, though he had two eyes, and his nose was whole. His leg, Harry noticed, was the same one he was used to. But Mad-Eye was dead as well. Harry’s breath came more quickly as he fought down panic.

“I’m Auror Moody,” he said gruffly. “I’ve some questions-“

“Most certainly _not!_ ” the witch at his bedside snapped out. “He’s only just woken up, for Merlin’s sake! You can wait until he’s up for it! From what I’ve heard, he’s a hero!”

“A hero that no one knows, that came out of nowhere, and that is our only witness for what happened last week!” Moody growled back. The witch looked like she might set his hair on fire, but Harry interrupted.

“Sorry – last _week?_ How long have I been out?” Harry asked, and Moody looked at him appraisingly.

“Since Friday night,” Moody grunted, and Harry stared at him blankly. “Today’s…” he trailed off, and the witch beside him tutted loudly, shooting a look at the Auror and shooing him back a step as she moved around the bed to look at his side.

“It’s Tuesday morning, dear,” she said. “You’ve been quite out of it – and you were hurt quite badly.”

“I don’t – what happened?” Harry asked, trying desperately to piece together his memories. His head ached, and thinking of how Moody could be _here_ only made it pound worse.

“That’s what I need you to tell me, boy,” Moody grunted out.

“Auror Moody!” the medi-witch burst out. “That’s enough! You will not be pressing this poor boy with any more questions until I say you can! He’s injured, and he’s just woken up, and he’s probably very confused, so unless _you_ intend to answer _his_ questions, you can move yourself outside to the hall and wait there until I call you in! Am I quite clear?”

Harry gaped at her as she forced Moody backwards, moving right up into his space and waving her finger in front of his nose as if he were a recalcitrant child. He looked at her for a moment, then barked out a laugh. “I’ll be right here,” he said, firmly, sitting himself in one of the bedside chairs. “And I won’t say a word until you’ve finished checking him over. But I do need to make my report.”

She huffed, but allowed him to stay, turning back to Harry. “Well, now that that interruption is dealt with,” she said, a touch of venom still in her voice as she cast one last dirty look over her shoulder at Moody, “I’m Healer Orrego. I’ve a few questions for you,” Moody let out a snort at this and she brandished her wand angrily in his direction, “and then I’ll need to check on your side. Now, what were you saying your name was?”

Harry froze. He didn’t know what was going on, though he had a steadily growing suspicion that the explosion in the Department of Mysteries had done something to affect time. _Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time, Harry,_ Hermione’s voice said in his head. “er – Neville,” he said, kicking himself for the hesitation. “Harry Neville.”

Moody’s eyes fixed on him, suspicion in them where before there had been a thoughtful appraisal, and he knew Moody, at least, hadn’t believed him. The Healer cheerfully wrote it on his chart.

“Well then, Mr. Neville,” she said, and he blurted out, “Harry. Just Harry’s fine.”

“Harry, then,” she said, beaming down at him. “You’ve been healing quite well, all things considered, but you’re going to have to stay at least a few days more. Your side was the worst of it, but lingering effects of the Cruciatus Curse are certainly nothing to sneeze at. Now, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself up to sitting only for her to tut at him until he was at least leaning back against the cushions. “I’m alright, really-“

“You had a hole in your side, Mr. Neville,” the witch said sternly, a bit of the steel he’d seen directed against Moody coming out in her voice. “And it’s not done healing. You are most certainly not ‘fine.’”

“Healer Orrego –” he began to protest, but she was already moving on down the clipboard.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the pain in your side?” she asked briskly.

“Er – two?” he said. “Maybe a three?” She stared at him for a moment, then wrote something down on the sheet. Moody’s eyes narrowed a little more, and he fought the urge to reach for his wand, hearing the echo of _Constant Vigilance!_ in his mind.

“And the rest of you?” she asked. “Any pain?”

“No,” – he shook his head, but the movement made the pounding in his head grow worse, and he admitted, “Well – a bit of a headache – but that’s going away now. Can I have some water?”

“Of course, dear,” the healer said, now looking very concerned. He didn’t see why, when he’d mostly told her that he wasn’t hurt. “Here you are.” She handed him a glass and he sipped it slowly, welcoming the cool refreshment on his lips.

“May I ask how old you are, Mr. Neville?” she asked, reaching for her clipboard once more. It floated obligingly into her hands and the quill popped up on the page, waiting for her hand to grasp it once more.

“I’m – what day is it?” he asked.

“Oh – oh!” the witch said, and, if it were even possible, her smile grew brighter. She reminded him very much of Mrs. Weasley. “It’s July 14th, dear. When is your birthday, then?”

“Erm – 17,” he said. “And my birthday’s – it’s on the 31st.

“Well,” Healer Orrego sighed happily, “happy early birthday, then. But you’ll be out of here and back home before then, hm? Now, let me have a look at that side.”

He glanced over toward Moody, unable to help it, and she noted his reaction. “If you want him to leave the room, dear, that’s fine. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

Moody’s face tightened, and he looked like he wanted to say something, but he nodded.

Harry shook his head. “No, that’s alright, I just – what happened? What’s wrong with my side?”

Healer Orrego hesitated, doubt on her features. “I don’t want to push you too fast,” she said, “you’ve only just woken up-“

Now, Moody interrupted. “Boy knows his own mind, I’d say,” he said, both eyes fixing intently on Harry’s face. (two real eyes in a very alive face, and the sense of wrongness hit Harry again, but he forced it back – he couldn’t deal with that now). “And he sure knew what he was doing against those Death Eater bastards. If he thinks he’s ready, tell him. Better that than have to sit there wondering what’s going on.”

The healer shot him a disapproving look, but Harry found himself suddenly, inexplicably grateful for the paranoid Auror’s reaction. He needed to know what was going on. “I’m alright,” he said, pushing himself upright again and ignoring the healer as she tried to wave him back down. He looked at Moody instead. “I need to know what happened.”

“So do we,” Moody said, and a light of approval was in his eyes. It didn’t dispel the suspicion – knowing Mad-Eye, Harry hadn’t expected it to. “What do you remember?”

“There was an explosion,” Harry said, thinking back. “And – everything was on fire. And there were people – the Death Eaters were attacking them. I – we fought. I was trying to get them away from the muggles –“ The fight came back to him then, the screams and smell of smoke, and he forced his breathing steady, and pushed the thought away. “I got – I dunno – I think I got four of them, but the witch, there was a girl there, and she grabbed her, and she was going to kill her so I- I-“ he stopped, remembering the pain of the Cruciatus, fighting against the feeling of helplessness and he’d been held at wandpoint, threatening to rise up and overwhelm him again. The war was over. It was supposed to be over!

“That’s enough!” the Healer snapped, and Moody looked ready to listen. He nodded, and got up. “No!” Harry burst out, nearly shouting, causing them both to stop and look at him in surprise. He pretended not to notice how Moody’s hand had jumped to his wand at his outburst. “No, I’m fine, I can – I need to know what happened. _Please_ ” he added desperately when the Healer looked unsure.

“I’m allowing this against my better judgment,” the healer told him, “because you seem to need it. If this gets to be too much for you, I _am_ putting this off until later,” the Healer warned him.

“Yes- yes, ok, that’s – thank you,” Harry said. Moody sat down again, and fixed his eyes back on Harry. “I – I dropped my wand, and she let the girl go. And they wanted to know – how I knew they were there, I think, but I didn’t – I didn’t expect –“ What could he say? He didn’t expect Death Eaters to be around anymore? He didn’t expect Moody to be alive? He didn’t expect to walk right into the war that had ended a month and a half ago? He stopped, but Moody misunderstood the reason for his silence, and broke in, gentler than Harry had ever heard the grizzled old Auror.

“They tortured you,” he said, blunt as ever despite his uncharacteristically soft tone, “with the Cruciatus. What happened when the Aurors showed up?”

“I mean, you were – you were there, weren’t you? You were one of the Aurors?” Harry asked, urgently, needing to know what had happened and make sense of what was going on.

“I need to hear it from you, lad,” he said, “for my report. Then you can ask me what you don’t know, and I can fill in what you don’t remember.”

Harry nodded. “Ok – the Aurors – they apparated in, and it surprised them – the one that was holding me, he wasn’t expecting it, and I got free and got my wand, and then I got over to the girl and her mum, and I put up a ward – only I didn’t – it wasn’t a very good one. And then I don’t remember much. You said they’re alright?” he said, looking up at the Healer, “They were ok? And the Death Eaters – what happened to them? Did you catch them?”

“When you took down the ward, some of the Aurors saw a wizard standing over two of the victims and missed the rest. They shot without thinking – an incarcerous, but it hit you on your side, where you’d already been hurt. You passed out. The Smiths are alright,” Moody said, a dark look coming onto his face, “but the bastards who did it got away.”

“Auror Moody-“ Healer Orrego protested, but Harry nodded.

“Well then,” she said, businesslike once more. “Am I allowed to look at your side now?”

Harry nodded, and shifted the bedcovers down, realizing with faint embarrassment that he was covered by nothing more than a hospital gown. She lifted it away from his side, and he saw there was a flap there they’d cut out, probably to get to his side while preserving his modesty as much as possible, he realized, and fought back a blush.

“So how’d that happen then?” Moody asked.

“Auror Moody!” The woman exclaimed sharply, horrified, “I’m sure that was an incredibly traumatic-“

“Got hit with some kind of curse,” Harry replied, and she turned her eyes on him, mouth open, words lost. “Dunno what – it was nasty though. I don’t really know much about healing spells, but I knew enough to keep it from getting worse and bandage it.”

“You ought to have seen a healer right away!” the healer at his side exclaimed indignantly. “Not that you did a bad job, but still, throwing on some bandages and hoping you won’t bleed out-“

Harry felt annoyance stir within him. “Well it’s not like the Death Eaters were going to give me a chance to do that, were they?” he snapped. “Excuse me, can we put off this duel for later, you hit me with a curse and I’ve got to go see a healer now, back in a mo’ –“ He heard Moody let out a snort at that, “they weren’t just going to stop trying to curse me and let me go off and get help! I did the best I could with it.”

He met her shocked gaze and dropped his head, anger rapidly draining. “Sorry,” he mumbled down toward the sheets. “I didn’t mean- sorry.”

He looked up again to see her blinking back tears and looking at him with an alarmingly pitying expression on her face. Moody, on the other hand, looked approving. “Good on you, lad,” he said, “You’re damn right they wouldn’t. You got back up and kept fighting. Where’d you learn that, anyway?”

Harry looked away and didn’t answer.

The wound on his side was closed, and the bleeding had stopped, but it was still badly bruised, and streaks of black spiraled out for a few inches away from the wound. “That was a nasty piece of magic,” the healer told him, “but we’ve got it contained quite well now, I think. A couple more days and you’ll be alright. Now,” she waved her wand and the bandages wrapped themselves back over his side, “who can I contact for you? And we’ll need you to fill out your basic information as well – address, next of kin, and suchlike – oh, don’t worry dear” she said, misinterpreting his panicked look, “Next of kin is just a formality. You’ll be right as rain soon enough.”

And with that, she handed the clipboard over to him, where it floated next to his elbow.

“Now, Auror Moody, you’ve got your answers. I think it’s time you and I both left and let this brave young man get some rest.”

Moody stood, but nodded toward the clipboard. “I’ll need a copy of that as well,” he said, eyes on Harry. “Not the medical information, but the rest of it. For my report.” With that, he stood, and he and the healer were gone.

Alone in the room, Harry felt panic rising up in him, and this time he could not quell it. There was no story to invent, there were no excuses to make now that Moody (and it was him! How could it be him?) and Healer Orrego had left the room. They hadn’t known Ron and Hermione, and they didn’t know him.

If he asked the date they would think him mad; commit him to the mind damage ward. But surely, surely there was a calendar somewhere. Hospital rooms had those, right? He thought back, and he realized of all the times he’d been in hospital, he’d never stayed the night at St. Mungo’s – it had always been in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts under the eagle eye of Madam Pomfrey. He sat up, looking around, and reached for his wand. It wasn’t there.

His wand holster on his wrist was empty. He cast his gaze frantically around the room, throwing off the blankets and sitting up far too quickly, and the pain in his side suddenly spiked. His eyes landed on a small table next to his bed, where his wand and glasses were laid out for him and where the healer had left the glass of water she’d given him earlier. He took his wand, sliding it back into the holster, and some part of him relaxed.

There was a calendar on the wall, but it showed only month and day, with the words Your Healer Today Is lining each box. Written in on July 14th was a scrawled Healer Orrego, just as it was on the mornings of the last several days. The nights showed another name written in neat letters: Healer Blackburn.

The clipboard moved to nudge gently at his arm, and the quill floated insistently into his hand. _The forms_ , he realized, _perhaps the forms will have the date._ He looked down, skipping the sections he was meant to fill out and skimming to the bottom, where he was meant to sign. There, in dark ink, lay the words: July 14, 1979.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a beta reader now! She is Becky, and she is amazing, and I am SO thrilled!
> 
> I'm going to try for at least one more chapter before I disappear into the vortex of Camp NaNoWriMo July. But I promise no kind of update schedule - life is too crazy right now.
> 
> Please comment if you liked it! I love knowing people are reading and are interested, and it inspires me so much to write when I know I'm part of a community that's enjoying Harry Potter together. I am having so much fun with this fic!

When Alastor Moody left the room at St. Mungo’s, he went straight from the Janus Thickey ward to the Floo on the ground floor. His report to the Auror office couldn’t be turned in without the boy’s information. Harry Neville, he thought, couldn’t have been more obvious about giving a false name if he’d tried.

Without his report, it wasn’t to the Auror’s Office that he flooed, but to the home of Edgar Bones. As soon as he arrived, he sent off a Patronus to Dumbledore asking him to come, and then went about checking the house for intruders. He was met only by a disgruntled Edgar, who swore that his wards were intact and no one could possibly be there who wasn’t meant to be.

Edgar followed him out to the sitting room when he was done, and minutes later they were met by Dumbledore flooing in from Hogwarts.

“Ah, Alastor,” Dumbledore said serenely, brushing the ash off his robes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Skip the pleasantries, Dumbledore, and let’s get straight to it,” Alastor growled. “The boy woke up.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Ah, and what did our young hero say? I confess, I was surprised that he had never attended Hogwarts – more surprised not to have heard of him at all. Where is he from?”

“He didn’t say,” Alastor replied. “And I’m almost certain the name he gave me was fake as well. Harry Neville, he said, and the Harry part seemed true enough, but he invented himself a new last name on the spot.”

In truth, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. The man at the hospital was clearly no Death Eater – not after the way he’d fought to take them down. But he was a very good duelist, clearly used to being in a fight. For him to give a false name, avoid talking about himself, hesitate to fill in the forms… no, there was something suspicious about him. The problem was that he didn’t have any idea what he might be trying to hide. Something in his past? Where he’d learned to fight like that?

But even if Alastor wasn’t sure he believed that Harry had just happened upon the fight, the rest of his story was true. It matched up with the testimony from the Smiths, and the wizard’s willingness to lay down his own wand and take a Crucio for the sake of the girl – even if it was a damn stupid thing to do, since there was nothing stopping them from going after the girl again once he was dead – said a lot about his character.

“What happened, Alastor?” Edgar asked, leaning forward. His brown eyes were keen and interested. “I heard there was a fight, and a wizard stepped in – saved a bunch of muggles and the Smiths – but that’s all I know.”

“It was a kid,” Moody grunted, and Edgar’s eyebrows rose. “He’s seventeen – almost eighteen, he said. He wasn’t sure what the date was when he woke up. Jumped in and dueled seven Death Eaters to a standstill, took out four of them. I think the only reason he didn’t get the rest is because they threatened the Smith girl. Held her at wandpoint and he dropped his wand. They did a number on him before we got there, but the Healers think he’ll be put right in a few more days.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes went distant, and he mused aloud as he thought. “I would know him if he had just graduated Hogwarts, he might have gone to school on the continent. Or homeschooled, possibly, or tutored – but why hide his name? Let me know if you find out anything else, Alastor,” he said. “I would be very curious to know where this young man has come from. Very curious indeed.”

When Alastor flooed back to St. Mungo’s to ask for a copy of the medical report, he was met by a distraught Healer. “He’s gone, Auror Moody!” she told him, eyes pinched with worry. “We told him not to leave yet, but he’s an adult, and he signed his discharge forms, against medical advice. He left just a few minutes ago.”

“Do you know where he went?” Alastor asked urgently. The Ministry certainly wasn’t going to question the hero who’d stepped up to fight Death Eaters, but he could be an important witness. They needed to know if he recognized any of the ones he’d fought, and they needed a statement beyond the one he’d gotten in a hospital room.

The witch shook her head. “Not our policy to ask, and we’ve no right to intrude on a patient’s privacy like that. But it wasn’t until after he left that we realized his forms…” she trailed off and looked uncertain.

“What?” Moody barked, and when she still hesitated, he snagged the paper from her hand and started to read.

“That’s privileged patient information” she started to protest, but he cut her off. “Healer Orrego, this patient is a witness in an ongoing investigation. His contact information is well within our rights to obtain from you, and” his eyes hit the line for address, conspicuously left blank “in the absence of any contact information, any and all information that may lead to finding him and obtaining his testimony is relevant to our investigation of the Death Eater attack.”

He was almost disgusted with himself at the bureaucratic nonsense he’d just spewed off, sounding more like a politician than an Auror, in his opinion, but she allowed him to read the form. “That comes back to me the second you’re done reading it,” she told him sternly, “And if you want a copy, you’ll need to have your office send an owl with the appropriate forms, or that paperwork can’t leave this building.”

He waved a hand at her to acknowledge her statement and read in silence.

Name – Harry Neville. Date – July 14, 1979. Birthday – July 31, 1961. Age – 17. Address had a few drips of a quill, like he’d hesitated, but there was nothing there. Medical history had a few lines scribbled out, and he squinted to read what was buried under the lines of ink. Bite in rig – was one, another looked like he’d begun to write Cruciatus - cruciatus exposure? Besides the most recent case? A note from the doctor showed there was scarring on his arm from multiple traumas, his hand (a note that it looked like words, possibly damage from a blood quill), his forehead, his chest, signs of broken and regrown bones, a broken and healed nose, signs of repeated spell trauma… the list rivaled some he’d seen on veteran Aurors’ medical reports. Reading down the page, he saw that the only injury Harry Neville had actually written down was a broken bone from a bludger at age 12.

He considered the page. It would have been one thing if Neville hadn’t filled out the form at all, but to use his (probably) fake name, go through a (redacted) medical history, and then not even include an address? Either he didn’t want to be followed and caught lying about who he was, or… another possibility rose to his mind. Why include medical information but no address? Unless it was a part of the form he wasn’t _able_ to complete. This thought in his mind, he thanked Healer Orrego and strode from the room.

Tossing a handful of powder into the fire, he called aloud, “The Ministry of Magic, Auror Office” and the flames swept him away.

“Scrimgeour,” he said, nodding toward the other Auror as he passed him on the way in. Walking into the Auror offices, his eyes narrowed on a pair of figures standing close together between two desks – closer than they needed to be. “Longbottom and Longbottom!” he barked, and they jumped apart, blushing at little. He narrowed his eyes at them. “Constant Vigilance!” he roared, and he caught the mirthful look they shot between them and the twitch of Frank Longbottom’s lips at his words. “Auror Longbottom,” he said sharply, and they both looked at him. “Frank,” he clarified. “With me. Now.”

“Auror Moody, it really wasn’t-“ Alice started, following after him and beginning to protest. Outside the Order, they were nothing but colleagues, and she knew it. Nevertheless, he rolled his eyes and answered. “He’s not in trouble, Longbottom. I’ve got work for him.” He stopped suddenly and turned, and she stumbled to a stop where she’d been following him before she ran him over. “And you have work to do as well, unless you need me to give you more?”

“No sir!” she yelped, and hurried back to her desk. “Bye, Frank!” she called cheerfully after them, and as Junior Auror Frank Longbottom began to turn, sappy look on his face, to look back in his wife’s direction, Moody shot out a hand to the collar of his robes and propelled him onwards toward his office.

Once inside, he moved to sit. “Close the door, Longbottom,” he ordered, and Frank did, taking the other seat across from him. Alastor handed him his half-written report on the Bexley attack, as they were calling it now – named for the neighborhood where it had taken place. “Not a lot here, sir,” Frank commented, and he nodded grimly. “No leads on the Death Eaters, they got their own out. They may not give much of a damn about each other, but they know better than to be compromised by muggle-baiting. Looks like that’s what it was – either it’s a coincidence the Smiths were there, or they were trying very hard to make it look like it was. And the only lead we might have gotten – the eyewitness – has discharged himself against medical advice and gone into the wind.”

“The Ministry was talking about giving him an award of some kind, for heroism,” Frank said casually, “They’re not going to be happy that he’s gone. They wanted to spin this in the _Prophet_ , make a big deal out of him, make it look like the war was going well.”

“Well that’s one good thing about this mess, then,” Moody grunted. “Kid’s suspicious, but he did a good thing – he doesn’t deserve getting dragged into Ministry politics for it.”

“A kid?” Frank asked, disbelieving. “How old?”

“Not much younger than you, Longbottom,” Moody said. “Turning eighteen this month.”

“I’m not a kid, Moody!” Frank protested hotly, “I’m 23 years old.”

Moody carried on as if he hadn’t said anything at all. “Harry Neville put down a sad attempt at a fake medical history after trying very hard to pretend that Neville was his real last name, but no address. Not even a fake one, no contact information, no hotel – we’ve never heard of this kid, and no one knows him. I’m thinking he might not be from England, or at least hasn’t been back lately – and maybe he hasn’t got anywhere to go. I need you to start asking around. Check the inns, look for gossip. He’s got to go somewhere. He’s got dark hair, green eyes, probably about five foot seven, five foot eight. Young, visible scars on his hand and forehead.”

As he spoke, Frank had been taking quick notes on a pad, and when he finished, he stood. “I’ll get on it,” he said. “What do you want me to do if I find him?”

“You let me know you’ve found him,” Moody said, “and we try and see if he’ll talk to us. But I want to hear it before the rest of the Ministry does.”

The Order was probably getting involved. Even though the kid was just barely an adult, he was good. And Lily and James and their friends were only a few years older – looking at Frank now, even he looked young to Alastor’s eyes. Still, the difference between eighteen and twenty was much larger than the difference between twenty-eight and thirty, he reflected, and he didn’t like throwing a nearly-eighteen-year-old kid into a war.

But he wasn’t, he knew. Even if they found him, and even if he could help the Order, he was already involved. By taking a stand against the Death Eaters, one that had gone public so quickly and been touted as a victory for the Ministry, not from an Auror team or a squad of Hitwizards, but from a “concerned, upstanding citizen doing their part to fight against the violence engulfing the country” as the last article had stated.

On his way out, Frank swung by Alice’s desk to give her a quick kiss. “Longbottom! Get to work!” Shouted Moody from his office, and he rolled his eyes. “He’s not even looking,” he muttered to Alice, and she grinned at him and waved him out the door.

Harry swore under his breath as he looked at the collection of things he’d pulled from his pockets. Hermione had always carried her beaded bag, and even though the habits of the last year had yet to fade, he had never been in the habit of carrying everything on him. He was regretting that now.

As soon as he’d been left alone, he’d started filling out the forms, but panicked when he realized he couldn’t tell them anything. It was 1979. What if something he said changed the future? What if he made up an address, and they went to look for him and there was no one there? Was it more suspicious to not leave them a name at all?

In the end, he’d scribbled out nearly everything he’d written under medical history, deciding no one would believe it anyway, and checked his healer’s notes instead. _Check and change bandages twice a day, apply dittany if wound opens, make sure magic traces are fading. Patient may be released to light activity only when magic traces are less than an inch in circumference._

It didn’t seem like there was anything in there he couldn’t deal with himself, if it came up. As long as the dark magic didn’t seem to be spreading – he admitted to himself he didn’t know anything about that. So when the healer had shown up, he’d insisted on leaving and signed the discharge forms so they wouldn’t begin to look for him. He knew a muggle hospital would look, and he wasn’t sure about St. Mungo’s, but he remembered the healer following after Gilderoy Lockhart when he’d left. Any hospital, magical or muggle, probably couldn’t lose track of their patients without sounding some kind of alarm, he figured.

He’d gone down to the bottom floor, found the apparition point, and headed straight for the Forest of Dean, collapsed onto the ground, slumped back against a tree trunk, and buried his head in his hands. And only then had he allowed himself to think about what had happened, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

He was in the past. What if he changed something? Hermione had talked about all the things that could happen if he did – he could go mad, he could prevent himself from being born, he could change his whole timeline. And what if there wasn’t a way back? Time turners weren’t meant to be used for years, and he wasn’t even sure a time-turner had brought him here. He knew the Department of Mysteries had researched time, in the future. He remembered the bell jar in the Department, and the Death Eater who’d gotten his head stuck in it, traveling through his own timeline over and over again. If he was stuck, could he avoid changing the future? Could he really just sit back and let things happen, knowing his parents would die, knowing Voldemort wasn’t gone, knowing about the horcruxes? Could he afford not to?

When he’d emptied his pockets, he’d taken stock, and realized he was woefully underprepared even compared to last year, when they’d been thrown with no warning into the forest, not having expected to leave the safety of Grimmauld Place so soon. At least then Hermione had been prepared – she had always been prepared, he thought fondly, and felt a sudden pang at the thought. Ron, he decided, would have been just as lost as he is. But he would have felt better to have him there. But they weren’t here, and he might never see them again.

In the end, he had his wand and its holster, one he’d picked up shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts when he’d realized he couldn’t feel safe without his wand in reach. He had a handful of galleons, sickles and knuts that he’d left in his robe pocket – altogether, they would probably get him a new set of robes and a night at the Leaky Cauldron, but they wouldn’t go much farther than that. He’d been in the habit of carrying his broom and cloak, shrunk down in his pockets, ever since Hermione had stopped carrying their things in her bag. He knew that Ron slept with his wand holstered, now, and that Hermione’s beaded bag, while not as full, was still often by her side. Even with the war over, it was a comfort to know he had it – especially in the face of crowds of fans or (far more disturbing) reporters.

All told, it wasn’t a reassuring collection. No tent, no food, hardly any money, and no idea how to get back to his own time. Nothing to help him figure it out, either.

When he realized Dumbledore was still alive, his first thought was to go to Hogwarts and tell him everything. But even that, he realized, could very likely change the future. And as he’d realized over the course of the last year, while Dumbledore was a great man, he was still flawed – still human. And Harry wasn’t sure how wise it would be to tell him everything.

No, his greatest comfort now was that Ron and Hermione had been with him in the Ministry. And if they hadn’t come here with them – and he’d seen no signs that they had – then they would be looking for him. And as impossible as his situation was, if anyone could figure it out, he firmly believed that it would be Hermione Granger.

All he had to do was stay under the radar and survive long enough for them to find him. The first step would be to get a job – who knew how long it would take? If they were able to come find him at the moment he’d arrived, they would be here already. If time passed the same for him as it did for them, it could be some time before they found a way. But he didn’t doubt that they would come.

He couldn’t go to Hogwarts. It was too conspicuous. He didn’t have any qualifications to teach, he was far too old to be a student, and he would have to talk to Dumbledore – and as much as he wanted to see him, he wasn’t sure he was ready to face that just yet. Not an Albus Dumbledore who didn’t know him, didn’t know all that had passed between them over the years – who would probably look at him with suspicion when he couldn’t even give his real name.

He couldn’t work at the Ministry either. He had no identification, had never taken his NEWTs, and didn’t have any record of his OWLs. Anywhere that would check into his background was out.

That left jobs that wouldn’t need any experience, or jobs that were somewhat less than legal. Maybe Tom at the Leaky Cauldron needed help? But there were so many people passing through, all the time. One of the other shops in Diagon, maybe. Or in Hogsmeade – they might want to hire help for the upcoming school year. Or he could go look in Knockturn Alley, where he was sure no awkward questions would be asked – but he knew he would be hard-pressed to turn a blind eye to some of what he would see there and not try to change the future.

He let out a sigh, leaning his head back against the trunk. He’d give himself one more day, he thought, and hope that Ron and Hermione could find him. One day to hide out in the Forest of Dean, to not have to face the world of 1979, a world full of unfamiliar names and faces long dead. One day, and then he would start looking for somewhere to go.

A long year of practice and a habit built out of necessity had him automatically setting up the usual wards: Muggle-Repelling, Muffliato, Protego Totalum, Cave Inimicum. Another spell – his rusty transfiguration spells being put to use – and the tree stretched out into a roof and two sides, forming a small wooden tent. It couldn’t compare to _their_ tent, he thought regretfully, but it would do for a night. He spent the afternoon building a small firepit and then staring into the flames, lit with a quick incendio, until night began to fall. Then he lay down inside his makeshift shelter on a ground soft from a cushioning charm and fell into a restless and unsettled sleep.

Harry woke to his stomach growling. He hadn’t had dinner the night before, and facing the light of the first day he’d woken, conscious of his situation and adrift in this new world, he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep and pretend it had all been a mad and impossible dream. A quite _finite_ on the tree tent had it reverting to a normal trunk again, and with quick, practiced flicks, he dismantled the wards on his campsite. All traces of his presence effectively vanished, he disapparated to Diagon Alley with a pop.

As he wandered aimlessly down the streets, he absentmindedly catalogued everything he saw. Blind corners, hooded witches and wizards, damage from what looked like curses. The Alley wasn’t as busy as he had expected, and knots of shoppers hurried quickly past, talking in low voices. Passing the broom shop, he almost turned to talk to Ron about it – the brooms were old, but Quidditch was still Quidditch. But Ron wasn’t here. Surprisingly, no one stood outside staring at the new brooms the way he and Ron used to do. 1979, Harry remembered then, was in the height of Voldemort’s power. The next two years would be some of the worst. The streets weren’t abandoned, but nobody lingered.

His meandering trip down the alley looking at shops and wondering if he could work there for a little while, in contrast, stuck out like a thestral in a herd of horses. Already he was getting sidelong looks, and some wizards and witches clutched their wands just a bit tighter or shifted sideways out of his way as he passed.

It looked like arrogance, he supposed, or confidence, to walk down the Alley without hurrying or wondering if there would be an attack. But none of those observers knew just how on edge he was, and his holstered wand was a comforting weight on his arm.

Eventually, he decided the best way to find work might just be to ask, but the Leaky Cauldron seemed too conspicuous a place to as good as admit that he didn’t have any identification or credentials. He would try it first anyway, but he didn’t know if he’d hear of anything he could follow up on. But if that didn’t pan out, he had another option. From what he remembered, the Hog’s Head was filled with a sketchier clientele, and he thought perhaps Aberforth wouldn’t even blink an eye at his questions. That would be his next destination, he decided, if he didn’t find anything here.

His stomach growled, and he felt the pang reminding him he hadn’t eaten since the hospital. _Leaky Cauldron first, then_ , he thought, and quickened his pace.

Stepping into the pub, he stopped for a moment, remembering his first time here, when Hagrid had brought him through and he’d seen the Alley for the first time. And in third year, when he’d taken a room for a little while, and heard about his godfather for the first time. He shook away his wandering thoughts and headed for the bar.

Remarkably, there Tom was, looking not a day younger than in Harry’s own time. He went up and asked for breakfast, handing over a couple sickles, then took a seat at a nearby table. The pub didn’t seem much emptier than in his own time; for all the fear, it seemed that the Leaky Cauldron was as busy as ever, and while some people were rushing through on business, others were sitting and talking as usual. In here, out of the open street, it felt safer. Harry knew that was a false sense of security; Voldemort could strike just as easily in a pub as he could on the street, and with just as much devastating effect. Even so, he relaxed a hair, comforted that he no longer stuck out from the people around him.

Famished, he dug into his meal, keeping an ear out to the room out of long-standing habit. And so he didn’t notice when, after giving him a second glance, Tom moved quietly toward the back of the bar and into the next room where customers weren’t allowed. Once out of view, he scribbled down a short note and sent it off with the scruffy, bad-tempered old owl that lurked near the window.

Returning, he kept half an eye on the quiet young man who’d come in that matched the description the Auror had given him the night before. Dark hair, green eyes, slight build, he didn’t look like anyone particularly dangerous, and the Auror hadn’t said he was a criminal – just that they wanted to talk to him if he showed up. Tom had his own suspicions, following the news in the _Prophet_ that morning: Hero of Bexley or Man of Mystery: Where Is He Now? The dramatic headline had been accompanied by a blurry picture of someone being carried into St. Mungo’s by a team of healers, and Tom thought perhaps it wasn’t too far of a stretch to say the man in that picture might resemble the man sitting in the Leaky and enjoying his breakfast.

Whatever it was, Tom knew how to keep his ears open and his mouth shut. Spilling secrets and airing idle speculation was a better way than any to lose half his clients and put a target on his back besides. And he had never been a man of many words, in any case.

When he came back around to the front, the man was waiting for him at the bar. “Erm – hi, I’m Harry Neville,” he said, looking a little awkward, “and I was wondering if you knew anyone looking for help? For work? I’m looking for a job, but I don’t know how long I’ll be in London, so I didn’t want to apply for anything long-term.”

“Try around the alley – the shops that have school stuff,” Tom answered. “Pretty soon, the students will be pouring in, and shops might pick up an extra hand or two to help with all the school orders. Ollivander doesn’t bother, and Madam Malkin only takes on seamstresses, but Flourish and Blotts is always overrun with students looking for their Hogwarts books. Or if you’re a decent hand at Potions, try the apothecaries and such. They’ll want to know you know your way around ingredients, but they’ve got just as many students coming through, most years. Mind you, most of them have hired for the summer already, but it might be worth checking.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly, looking thoughtful. “I’ll ask.”

“Come back this evening,” Tom said, “and I’ll keep an ear out, let you know if I’ve heard anything more. Where are you staying while you’re in London?”

“I – erm – just got in,” Harry said, floundering for an answer. He wasn’t sure what to say – he probably couldn’t afford to stay in the inns more than one or two nights, but he didn’t really want to admit to camping out in the forest for lack of anywhere to go.”

“Well, there’s rooms if you want ‘em,” Tom said, then mercifully dropped the subject, turning back to his dishes and drink orders.

“Thanks,” Harry said, meaning it. “Thanks so much.”

He turned and left the bar, heading for Flourish and Blotts. He’d never been the best in Potions, and he had no OWLs besides – the apothecary seemed like a long shot. If Flourish and Blotts wasn’t hiring, he would try Hogsmeade after.

Inside the bookshop, he hesitated for a moment, looking around. He’d never applied for a job before, and how to ask about a job wasn’t something they taught at Hogwarts. _It should be_ , he thought angrily, resenting his time spent sitting in History of Magic listening to Binns instead of learning something so practical. _It should be one of the first things they teach us when they talk to us about careers, fifth year._ Even his plans after Hogwarts hadn’t yet been set. They’d all been too busy recovering to worry about what came next – even Hermione, with her plans of Ministry reform and lobbying and so forth, had been grateful to take some time to just help rebuild, go where she was needed, and not think yet about what came next.

Now that he had some distance, Harry could recognize that even before he’d known about the horcrux, he’d never really thought about what he wanted to do with his life after Hogwarts. An Auror had seemed like a good option to fight Voldemort, and he’d been told he’d be good at it, but he didn’t know if he really wanted it for himself. Somehow, his whole life had become bound up with the fight against Voldemort, and he’d never thought of a future beyond it. _I never expected to survive_. The thought came to him suddenly, and he knew it was true. Even before he walked into the forest, a teenage wizard against a Dark Lord had seemed like a fight already over. _And now,_ he thought bitterly, _Voldemort was alive again. He didn’t have a future without Voldemort after all._ The irony of that didn’t escape him, and he pushed his thoughts aside, frustrated. _Not what you’re here for, Harry_ , he reminded himself.

Flourish and Blotts looked much the same as it always had, books stacked up, bookshelves reaching to the back of the bright, well-lit store, filled with bustling shoppers and more sedate browsers. He and Ron had always been rushing in and out, just here to get what they needed, but Hermione, he thought with amusement, was always impossible to tear away until she’d seen every book at least once. He moved forward into the store, and seeing nowhere that would obviously have applications, walked up to the front desk.

The clerk was a witch who looked to be in her late teens or early twenties, hair pulled back and a grumpy look on her face. She gave him one tired glance and spoke before he could say a word. “Hogwarts book lists aren’t out yet, so if you’re here for those, you’ll have to wait. Everything else is sorted by section and labeled – she waved her hand irritatedly at the ends of the shelves, which were indeed labeled with subjects such as Herbology, Astrology, Runes, Egyptology, Philosophy, and more. It looked like it may have been reorganized sometime before his own time.

“Erm, I was actually wondering-“ he began, and she cut him off again. “The catalogue is in the front of the store by the window, see there, where it says catalogue?” she said pointedly, and almost unwillingly, his head turned to look. There was indeed a book labeled catalogue, and as he watched, a wizard picked up the quill and scrawled something down. Lists of titles ran across the page almost too quickly to see, before it came to a stop and a little golden arrow pointed the wizard left. “So if you’re wondering where to find something, try that before coming up to ask me.”

A queue had started to form behind him now, and a frazzled-looking witch who was waiting to check out with her books was giving him a pointed glare, clearing her throat and shifting her feet every few seconds.

“I was wondering if you were hiring!” Harry burst out all at once, almost shocked that he’d gotten the words out before she could interrupt him again.

“Oh,” the witch said, and looked him up and down dismissively, probably noting the slightly wrinkled robes that had clearly seen better days. “Well, then. I suppose you’re welcome to apply, then, aren’t you?”

“Yes – well, I had hoped so,” Harry said, now rather impatient himself, “but I didn’t see any applications anywhere, so that’s what I’d come to ask-“ the last part came out through gritted teeth, and the witch sighed, seeming very put-upon. “You’ll want Bernie – Bernard Blotts, he’s the owner. Just hang about, yeah? He’s on lunch. I’ll give him a shout when he gets in and you can talk to him then.”

At that point, she was very clearly done with the conversation, and looked past him to the witch behind him. “Checking out, then?” she said, and Harry took the hint, stepping out of the way.

He meandered around the shelves for a while, pulling books down and flipping through them absent-mindedly. Looking through them, he was amazed at how many things he had never heard of in school. Things Hermione might have known, he thought fondly, but he and Ron had never spent much time looking into fields that weren’t required for class. Some of the books were almost enough to make him regret not taking Arithmancy or Ancient Runes, though he could be honest with himself enough to admit he wouldn’t have done well in those classes unless Hermione nagged him into it – not when he had so many other things to be worrying about at the time. Although Ron probably wouldn’t have taken them, and they wouldn’t have had class with Hagrid, either.

There were books on Curse-Breaking, books on Ancient Magical Civilizations, books on Grindelwald and all the Dark Lords before him, books on history that Binns had never taught, like the International Confederation of Wizards, the founding of the Ministry, the current state of international affairs. He found one book that seemed to be an account of an artifact-hunter’s travels through the ruins of ancient magical civilizations, and another titled Advanced Defense: Beyond the Dueling Circuit that he thought would have been perfect for the DA, if it were still running.

Magic had left him in awe when he had first seen it, and he could never forget his first sight of Diagon Alley or his first view of Hogwarts. But to some extent, the mundane nature of school had overridden that wonder, and most of the great works of magic he’d seen had been related to Voldemort. Now, somehow, the bookshop was reminding him of what it was like to walk into this world for the first time, suddenly aware that there was an entire new world out there filled with amazing and fantastical things. There was darkness in this time as well, of course, and he would go back to his own soon enough. But for the future – maybe when he looked at the future, it didn’t have to be about fighting the next Dark Wizard, and the next, and the next. Maybe he could have a real future.

He had become so lost in the books that he had nearly forgotten about his request for a job application, and he was startled when an elderly wizard tapped him gently on the shoulder. He flinched backwards, wand sliding smoothly into his hand, halfway through a wordless _Protego_ before he remembered where he was.

The greying man had carefully backed up on seeing his reaction, and he was watching him with eyes that were very sharp for a face so wrinkled and craggy with age. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Are you alright, young man?”

Harry’s breaths were coming quickly, and his heart was pounding. In his head, he cursed himself for being so distracted, for letting someone come up behind him. He shoved his wand back into its holster and tried to calm his racing heart. “I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ he bit his lip, not sure what to say. What could he say, to explain what had just happened?

The man reached out, slowly, and gently patted his shoulder. “I’m not going to ask,” he said. “Merlin knows we’ve all seen too much these last few years.” A slow smile crept across his face as he continued, “And it always does my heart good to see a young person like you so invested in their books.”

Harry was taken aback at this appraisal, wanting to protest – he had never been good at book learning, and Hermione was the one that loved bookshops and libraries. But he realized that maybe that wasn’t true anymore. He wasn’t a great reader, like her, but he had felt drawn in by some of the books he’d seen in the store, enough that he’d forgotten to be aware of his surroundings. _Constant Vigilance!_ shouted a voice that sounded like Moody in his head, and he shoved it down.

The old man stood there watching him for a minute, and Harry fidgeted. “Was there something you wanted, sir?” he asked, not quite sure what to say.

“On the contrary, young man, Melissa told me it was more like there was something _I_ could do for _you._ ”

At Harry’s blank look, he held out a hand. “Bernie Blotts.” He chuckled as Harry’s eyes widened.

Mortified, and feeling he may have just ruined all his chances at a job, Harry shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Harry P- Neville.”

“Well, Mr. Neville, will you step into the back with me? I could use a little more help around the shop for the summer, and I’m happy to give you an interview.”

“Yes, sir. And it’s- it’s Harry. Just Harry.”

“Well, then, Harry,” Mr. Blotts said, kindly. “You may just call me Bernie. Everyone does.”

The interview went as well as it could under the circumstances. Harry had been unable to offer any references when asked, but Mr. Blotts – Bernie – hadn’t sent him packing, so perhaps he hadn’t lost his chance. Or perhaps it was only politeness, he thought discouragingly. But they’d had a pleasant conversation, and the man seemed to like him, or at least didn’t seem to think his twitchy wand-hand was too off-putting. He’d seemed to have more sympathy to that than anything else. Sympathy, not pity, which Harry greatly appreciated. He liked Bernie, a lot more than he thought he would, and found himself hoping he would get the job, not only for his own sake, but because he might honestly enjoy working there. Even if Melissa had given him a skeptical look on his way out. Bernie had promised him to owl him an answer soon.

By evening, he was exhausted. Between dealing with the store clerk, the impromptu interview, and the time he’d spent aimlessly wandering the Alley afterward, asking after a few more jobs but being turned away when he was unable to offer OWLS or references of any kind, he was ready to collapse into bed. He missed Ron and Hermione with a fierceness that ached. One night, he told himself. He’d take one night at the Leaky Cauldron, whether or not it was wise to spend his money there, and then tomorrow, when he heard back from the bookstore’s manager, he’d know where to head next. If he did get the job, he faced the question of where to stay, and how to get some new robes – they certainly wouldn’t be willing to give a bookshop worker an advance on his pay, and he felt unwilling to admit his circumstances, in any case. But, he thought, he could deal with that as it comes. _Don’t count your owls before they’re delivered, Harry,_ he told himself sternly, and headed back to the Leaky Cauldron for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have an update! But maybe the last one until July is over, and NaNoWriMo releases its clutching grasp on my soul.
> 
> I might update once (maybe even twice if the plot bunnies are particularly ruthless) but the majority of my focus next month will be on my own novel.
> 
> Happy reading!

When Harry Neville walked into the Leaky Cauldron, they were waiting for him. Frank and Moody were sitting at a table tucked back into a corner, and when Neville stepped through the door, Moody’s eyes fixed on him and didn’t move. Although no one seemed to be paying much attention, there were a few curious eyes starting to drift toward them. Frank noticed as the young man’s eyes tracked over the people around them, and a small frown made its way to his face. That was the kind of awareness an Auror had – and it got trained into them. Why would a seventeen-year-old kid read a room like that? Moody had clearly noticed the curious eyes as well, because his face grew more irritated every second Neville hesitated. He pointedly kicked out the chair next to him.

As Harry Neville made his way over to join them at their table, he took the opportunity to study the man he’d heard so much about. He looked younger than Frank had expected, even knowing his age – having heard about what he’d done at Bexley, he’d somehow expected another Alastor Moody, just younger. That wasn’t the case. His face still held the features of youth, and his body was a study in contradictions. It was weathered and worn, showing signs of hunger and hard use, scars on his skin, yet somehow held also the look of someone still growing into himself. The youth of his face was belied by the look in his eyes – wary, yes, as he looked at Moody, though Frank admitted in his head that was a fair assessment. He’d be wary too, if Moody was looking at him with that glint of challenge and intrigue in his eye. But more than that, it was wariness that went beyond just being unsure about a conversation with an Auror. This was learned wariness, the kind Frank saw in survivors of attacks, in children who’d been abused, and in veterans who’d just seen too much. The kind where you didn’t remember how to trust the people around you, unless they had earned it, time and time again.

He looked tired, too, and in more ways than one. His eyes looked tired, his face drawn in a way that spoke of more than one sleepless night. The shadows behind his eyes said this was more than just insomnia. Frank saw the signs of physical weariness, too, though they were well hidden. The slight slump in his shoulders, the exhaustion that had made a permanent home in his posture, every movement careful and precise, nothing extravagant, nothing energetic about his person.

He looked more like the veterans of Grindelwald’s war than like the students Frank knew who’d just finished seventh year. Those seventeen-year-olds were bright and happy about their futures, full of optimism and hope and life despite the war. Suddenly, Frank was desperately curious – just what had Harry Neville been doing in his life that had done this to him? Perhaps this conversation would bring him some answers. He hoped it wouldn’t just bring more questions.

“Auror Moody,” Neville said politely, passing by the seat Moody had kicked out and sliding into the one that put his back to the wall. “What an unexpected pleasure,” he said drily, and Frank almost snorted. He clearly knew this meeting was no accident, but Frank approved of anyone with the guts to use sarcasm on Auror Alastor Moody.

“Neville,” Moody grunted. “We were looking for you. Got some questions.” The look Moody pinned on the kid would’ve had Frank rushing away to do his paperwork in seconds – it had been used on him often to exactly that effect. Harry Neville didn’t blink an eye.

“I answered them in St. Mungo’s. I’m really not sure what else I can do for you,” he said, meeting Moody’s eyes fearlessly. “And it’s Harry – just Harry.”

He turned then to Frank, holding out a hand and doing a spectacular job of pretending he hadn’t noticed Moody’s steadily growing irritation. “I’m Harry Neville. I don’t think we’ve met-“

“Frank Longbottom,” Frank said, shaking his hand. Neville had a firm grip, though it jerked a little as Frank gave his name. “I’m an Auror as well – I work under Auror Moody.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry said. “So what’s all this about?”

“Here,” Moody said, sliding a form over. Frank recognized it as the copy of his information they’d requested from the Hospital records. “First of all, you can help us finish this. We’ve got to file witness information, and quite a bit of yours seems to be mysteriously missing.”

Harry took the form, and without looking at it, slid it firmly back over toward Frank. “I’m sorry, but I’ve filled out everything I could. I’m not sure that I can help you any further, unless you have more questions about what happened?”

Frank picked up from Moody. “Well, we had hoped to get descriptions of any of the attackers that you saw, and perhaps to have you testify. However, despite your courageous actions, your testimony can only be accepted in court if we can confirm your identity and place of address. It’s common for the court to request a background check on any witness to make sure there is no conflict of interest and no reason for that testimony to be falsified in any way. It’s not as relevant in this case, unless you happen to know or be related to any of the witches and wizards who were there, but the courts insist on their procedures.”

Harry’s eyes slid away and one shoulder rose in an awkward shrug. “I can give you their descriptions, if you think it’ll help.” Frank noted the omission of identity and address and tried to keep his surprise and unease from showing. Why wouldn’t Harry Neville work with them? Did he have a criminal background of some kind? Was he in some kind of trouble? He didn’t seem like the kind of person who would have problems with either of those things, not after jumping in to defend strangers the way he did, but Frank couldn’t think of any other reason for him to be trying so hard to stay under the radar, even if he was incredibly bad at lying about it. Frank desperately wanted to gauge Moody’s impression of this conversation, but when he glanced over, the older Auror’s face was impassive.

“That’s where we’ll start, then,” Moody said. “Longbottom, take notes.”

Frank pulled out a quill and parchment, ready to take down the description, and both of them looked at Harry. He fidgeted a little under their gaze.

“I dunno about most of them,” he admitted. “They had hoods and cloaks and masks, mostly. The first three went down pretty quick, but I didn’t really look after that – I’m not even sure if they were witches or wizards. The others- one of them was tall, and had a deep voice, but I never saw his face. I know that’s not helpful, sorry. The only one I really got a good look at was the woman- er- the one that wasn’t masked when you showed up.”

Moody nodded. “Go on.” So far, Frank had written nothing. Tall and deep voiced wasn’t even helpful for finding a wizard, let alone prosecuting them.

“She’s the one that was casting the cruciatus – she had it on the little girl – Smith, you said her name was? And she’s the only one that talked to me. Her voice was- she said everything in a kind of sing-song voice, and she was nuts, I could see that just from looking at her. More than the rest of them. And-“

Harry broke off for a moment and swallowed hard. His eyes had gone a little distant, and his breathing had quickened almost imperceptibly. After a moment, when he didn’t continue, Moody spoke.

“We know what happened from the Smiths,” he said, gruffly. “We just need to know what she looked like. Some of the Aurors saw her, but nobody got a good look. When did she take off her mask?”

Harry’s eyes focused back on Moody, and Frank saw his hand relax from where it had been clenching into his thigh. “After she told me to drop my wand,” he said. “Once we weren’t fighting anymore. She took her mask off, and she had black hair, kind of wild, dark eyes, pale skin.”

“Do you remember her face?” Moody asked, and Harry nodded.

“Definitely.”

“Longbottom, the Semblance Stationary.”

Frank pulled out of his bag a piece of the enchanted paper and handed it over to Harry. “Ever used this before?” he asked.

“Er, no,” Harry said, looking at the paper in bemusement.

“Hold it, and stare at the paper. And pull into your mind the image of the person you’re thinking of – in this case, the Death Eater that you saw. You have to look at it and picture yourself looking into her eyes, and her face forming around her. It should transfer the image of her from your mind to the page.” At Frank’s explanation, Harry’s mouth firmed up in determination, and he took hold of the paper.

“Right,” he said, and stared at it intently.

“Make sure you only picture her, don’t think of anyone else,” Frank warned. “Or you might get… mixed results. The clearer the memory, the clearer the picture.” They’d had a case once where a woman had been remembering a wizard who’d attacked her husband. She thought about her husband as well while she gave the report, and halfway through the face had morphed into a strange mix of them both – features crushed together in a strange facsimile of human form. It had taken her several more tries after that; shaken by the first attempt, her results had seemed only to get stranger as time went on.

It didn’t seem like that would be a problem here. Slowly, the image of a woman began to appear on the page, ink welling up out of the parchment to spiral across the canvas, twisting itself into a picture. First the eyes, just as crazed as Harry had said. His memory was clearly crystal clear, which made Frank look at him with concern. Often victims of the Cruciatus or survivors of attacks would struggle to have clear memories, the event blurred in their mind as a form of self-defense against the trauma. If Harry could remember the witch this clearly, did he have flawless memories of being tortured as well?

From the eyes, the ink began moving out into a face with distinctly aristocratic features, a sneer on her mouth, hatred etched into the lines of her face. It was twisted up, and there was a word on her lips. This was his memory of the woman as she’d tortured him, Frank realized with horror. In the moment she’d cast on him, willing him to _hurt_.

The ink swirled out one last time, bursting forth into wild black hair streaming away from her face, no longer trapped with a hood thrown back. Moody swore aloud. The image was perfect, a clear likeness of the attacker. Staring out at them from the paper was Bellatrix Lestrange.

Frank took the paper back when Harry offered it, tucking it back into his bag. Moody’s face was a thundercloud.

“Does that help?” Harry asked.

Moody looked like he was barely restraining himself from swearing at him. “Not unless you can start being honest with us!” he barked. “The Blacks are a powerful family, and if we take this in as evidence, do you know what we’ll get? Nothing, because we can’t prove that this came from the attack without your testimony, and with the Black family, anything less than that and the case would be thrown out. Even with that testimony, they’ve got a lot of leverage, and if there is anything that casts doubt on your reliability as a witness, she’ll walk without even being questioned. And you – you are not a reliable witness. All we have on you is a half-completed hospital record that’s full of so many holes they wouldn’t even need to bother poking holes in it. So, Mr. _Neville,”_ he said, leaning in, face going nearly white with restrained fury, “I think it’s time you started being honest with us.”

Harry Neville met Moody’s glare evenly, frustration sparking in his green eyes in return. “I can’t!” he snapped back at Moody, then instantly looked like he regretted his outburst. He clenched his jaw defiantly shut and looked away.

Moody sat back in his chair, satisfaction now burning in his gaze, though underneath the anger was still there. Frank felt it too – the burning frustration of knowing who their enemy was and not being able to do anything about it because of politics. Letting her walk free to attack and torture more people because their one witness was a suspicious kid who wouldn’t even give them his real name.

“Is your name even Harry?” Moody asked, and his head snapped back around.

“Yes,” he bit out, “it is.”

“Your real name?”

“ _Yes,_ ” he insisted.

“So it’s just the Neville part that you made up?” Moody pressed.

“Ye- wait, no- what?” Harry swore at Moody’s triumphant look.

“What’s your name?” Moody asked.

Harry slumped a little in his seat, the anger draining out of him to be replaced with weary resignation.

“It’s just Harry,” he said, quietly.

Moody raised his eyebrows but seemed willing to let it go for now. Frank took up the questioning, sensing this was their chance to get some real answers.

“Alright, Harry,” he said. “Can you give us an address?”

His eyes flicked away again and his shoulders curled defensively. “I haven’t got one,” he admitted, but didn’t volunteer anything more.

“So where are you staying now?” Frank asked patiently.

“Here,” Harry said, and Moody raised his eyebrows.

“I thought we said stop lying, kid,” he said.

“I’m not lying – and I’m not a kid!” Harry was angry again, and half out of his chair at that. Frank held back a sigh. As much as he admired Moody as an Auror, he’d never known the man to be good at tact.

“We were here last night, and you weren’t,” Moody bit out. The two were staring each other down now, and Frank surreptitiously slid a little farther back in his chair.

“Well I wasn’t staying here last night,” Harry said. “You asked where I’m staying now, not where I stayed yesterday.”

Looking like every word hurt, Moody said slowly, “Then where did you stay yesterday?”

Harry looked caught out for a minute, a hunted look flickering across his face. “None of your business!” he snapped back, and Frank, reluctantly, leaned forward to intervene.

“Alright, calm down,” he said, holding his hands up defensively when both glares turned to him. “This isn’t helping anything.”

They both subsided, but the tension still crackled in the air. Frank grimaced, knowing he might catch hell for this from Moody in the Auror office later, but he spoke up anyway. “Look, Moody, can you give us a minute?”

Moody’s eyes promised Frank a slow death by paperwork if this didn’t work, but he got up and stomped away to the restroom. Harry regarded Frank warily, eyes flickering away for a second to follow Moody’s retreat.

“Harry, do you have family to stay with? Or are you staying with friends?”

“No.”

“No friends, no family?”

“ _No._ ”

“Can you tell me where you work?”

“I asked around Diagon. I’m hearing back from the bookshop tomorrow.”

“And before this, where did you go to school? Not Hogwarts, I know that.”

Harry’s shoulders began to inch up again, and he didn’t answer for a second. “Homeschooled,” he said suddenly, grumpily. The shoulders, Frank thought, were Harry’s tell, and the only way he was ever going to gauge when he hit home with this kid.

“Harry, do you have somewhere to go?” he asked, concern growing as he realized he thought he knew what was going on.

“I told you, I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron-“

“After that,” Frank interrupted. “If your funds run out, or if your job falls through – do you have somewhere to go?” Harry’s shoulders started to jerk up, but he stopped them, body taut with tension as he sat across from Frank looking ready to flee. Frank knew then he was right, but it didn’t feel like a victory.

“You shouldn’t even be out of hospital yet,” he said, but knew instantly this was a mistake.

“I’m fine!” Harry snapped at him, temper finally frayed to its breaking point. “I’m fine, and I’ve got it, and I don’t need you to come here and tell me-“ he broke off, chest heavily, and then pushed his chair back, legs skidding on the floor. “I don’t have any proof of identity, or OWLs, or NEWTs, or whatever it is you want from me. I can’t help you with your testimony, and I don’t need your help, or your pity. So we’re done here.”

Frank rose half out of his chair, but Harry was already turning away. “Good luck with your case, Auror Longbottom,” he bit out furiously, and then he was gone.

Harry glowered as he made his way up to the bar, the patrons surreptitiously sliding out of his way only making him feel worse. “Can I get a room?” he asked Tom, and he didn’t say another word as the man showed upstairs to his room and left, closing the door behind him. Then he collapsed, hands trembling and breath shaky, onto the bed.

Every question they’d asked about the attack had put him back in that moment, feeling the panic, the desperation, the pain. He didn’t want to keep dwelling on being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, but they needed to know – and he was the only one who could give them their answers. So he’d stared at that paper, remembering every bit of what it had felt like to be held under her wand as she stared down at him, gleefully demanding to know who he was.

And the Aurors – Neville’s _dad_ , who’d been tortured with that same spell until he’d lost his mind – had asked the same thing. Who are you? And he didn’t have an answer. Here, he was no one. He shouldn’t even exist in this time.

He lay there for several minutes, just breathing, until his heart stopped racing and he calmed down enough to think. He had given away much more than he’d meant to, but he didn’t think he’d said anything truly dangerous. They knew he didn’t know anyone, that he wasn’t giving them a real identity – not that he had one to give – but they didn’t know his last name. They knew that he didn’t have somewhere to stay, but not why. And they definitely didn’t know he was from the future. As long as he didn’t interfere with anything else, just kept himself alive until he could find a way back, or Ron and Hermione came for him, he was safe from creating a paradox. He couldn’t let himself damage the timeline – if he did, he didn’t know what would happen.

If they had the answers they needed – or at least, had accepted that he wasn’t going to tell them anything else, they shouldn’t come asking him questions again. He snorted aloud a second after that thought came to him. He’d never known Mad-Eye Moody to let something like that go, and the younger Alastor Moody didn’t seem much different in that respect. But they hadn’t told the world he was involved in the Bexley attack, and maybe that was the best he could hope for right now – having his name all over the papers again definitely wouldn’t help him keep from making history.

He punched his pillow down flat and rolled over onto it, burying his face in the bed. Unless he got a job, and soon, he wouldn’t be able to afford many more nights renting a room. He needed to get some sleep while he could.

Worries about the timeline, wondering about the future, the memories of the attack that had been dredged up, and the confrontation with the Aurors all ran through his head, and he lay awake long into the night. Finally, as the voices from below quieted and the clock ticked past two, sleep claimed him.

It was late the next morning when he awoke, and was roused only by the insistent tap of an owl at the window. He realized this had been the sound that awakened him – the owl must have been there for some time. _Am I back?_ He thought blearily, wondering if Ron and Hermione had fixed everything. _No one would owl me in the past – I don’t exist._ But the room looked the same. The owl fluffed up outside the window, and he pulled himself unwillingly from the bed to pry it open.

_Bernie!_ He realized. He’d been right – almost no one would owl him. But the owner of Flourish and Blotts had promised him a response to his job inquiry. Suddenly he felt wide awake, and he tore hastily at the letter the owl had deposited on him. Two sheets of parchment were tucked neatly inside. He unfolded the top one.

_Dear Mr. Neville,_

_Thank you for your inquiry into employment with Flourish and Blotts. We would be delighted to offer you employment for a probationary period of three months, at which time we will review your performance and consider a longer contract. A provisionary contract will be presented for your appraisal upon report to your first day of work, this upcoming Saturday._

_Please respond to this owl with confirmation of your acceptance of the position. We await your reply._

_Sincerely,_

_Mr. Blotts_

Harry felt a grin splitting his face, and the last remnants of the turmoil of the evening before slipped away. He was hired! He had a job, and he could live quietly under the radar until either Hermione and Ron found a way to pull him back to his time, or he found a way back himself. And he was far more excited about this job than anyone in his time might have expected; in the bookshop, browsing the shelves, he had begun to rediscover a little of the joy and wonder he had felt upon first discovering the wizarding world. Yes, Voldemort was still alive, but he didn’t know anything about Harry – no one knew anything about Harry. He wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived, he wasn’t the Savior of the Wizarding World, there was no prophecy. Thrown back into the past, maybe he finally had the chance to live as Just Harry for a little while.

He set the letter carefully aside and looked at the second page, a scrap of parchment tucked carefully in beside the stiff, neat page of the first.

_Dear Harry,_

_It was truly delightful to meet you yesterday. You seemed capable enough at the interview, of course, or I couldn’t have hired you no matter what the circumstances, but I was delighted to be able to hire someone who is so enthralled by books that they would forget they had an interview at all! I feel I have met a kindred spirit. I am very much looking forward to having you work in my shop – that is, if you accept my offer, which I hope you do. If not, please stop in anytime. I enjoyed our conversation very much._

_Bernie_

At this, Harry’s smile grew wider, and he felt laughter start to well up. Him, a great reader, a kindred spirit! He must have been channeling Hermione, because no one had said that about him ever in his life. But Bernie wasn’t wrong, either – he had been excited to read through the books, and he was eager to have the chance to dig into them again. _I’m becoming more like Hermione every day I’m here_ , he thought, and snorted as he pictured the look on Ron’s face when he heard.

Setting this letter atop the other, he ran the few cleaning spells he knew over his robes, which were beginning to look quite tattered. They freshened up a bit under his wand, but he knew he’d have to get more soon. He pulled out his quickly shrinking pile of funds and began to count.

_I can get one more set of robes at least,_ he thought, _and some food for the week. If I’m paid at the end of my first week, this should see me through if I don’t stay in any more inns._ He glanced regretfully at the bed, knowing he would see at least a week of camping out until he was able to find cheap accommodation somewhere. He wasn’t entirely sure where to start with that, either. _They really don’t prepare us much for the real world, do they?_ He thought, remembering his four-poster bed at Hogwarts and the abundance of food they provided. But that wasn’t really fair to the school either, he knew. After all, who really expected their students to be thrown back in time just after graduation with no resources and no way to explain their situation? But he did wish these things didn’t always happen to _him._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all should be extra thankful for my lovely beta Becky this chapter, because I wrote this with my anti-editing NaNoWriMo brain and then she fixed everything.

"Longbottom!" Moody shouted the moment Frank walked in with Alice. Alice gave her husband a commiserating pat on the shoulder before heading to her own desk. She already knew which Longbottom Moody was talking to. He had been furious with Frank when he pulled that stunt last night, sending him away, and his anger hadn't yet abated. He hoped it had been worth it - for his subordinate's sake. Otherwise he was going to tear him a new one.

The Auror Office was a large room, with rows of desks set up in the middle for the Aurors. Senior Aurors were the only ones that had their own offices, spaces that offered a little more privacy, since the clear glass windows could be easily clouded by a concealing charm. Most of the other doors led off to cabinet after cabinet of file storage; after only a few years on the Auror Force, Frank had already heard the old joke about Aurors putting away more papers than criminals more times than he could count.

They had a front desk for a receptionist, but with their budget strains from the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, she was gone more often than not, picking up hours in whatever section of the Ministry needed help that day. Instead, whatever unfortunate Junior Auror was seated nearest the desk was responsible for dealing with any visitors or public inquiries.

Past reception, Aurors milled back and forth between desks, sharing case notes. Their offices were old, but neatly kept, the walls a faint, smudged yellowish color. While one wall bore service medals and names to honor Aurors fallen in the line of duty, on the other were pasted pictures of known Death Eaters.

On one slender table by the wall rested the coffeepot, self-heating tea kettle, teacups, and mugs, set next to a large water cooler. Frank hated the table – it wandered the office at random, ostensibly to be able to provide refreshments to the Aurors while they were working. Frank hadn’t yet met a Senior Auror who didn’t seem to live purely off caffeine and spite when they were at work. In practice, however, there was always a concerted effort to chase it down whenever someone wanted coffee, and it never seemed to be there when you needed it. The Aurors as a whole despised the system. It wasted a lot more time than just walking over and getting a drink.

The Bexley case was being kept largely under wraps. Alice knew, but only through her role in the Order – she and Frank, though they generally made a point not to keep secrets from one another, both understood that sometimes operational security for an ongoing case was important. In this case, it was less because they worried about a leak getting out to Harry Neville, and more that they didn’t want the press or the Death Eaters to get any information that might bring Harry into their sights. Accordingly, the case would be discussed only behind the closed doors of Moody’s office.

Caught in Moody’s sights, Frank, wisely, didn't say a word. He simply making his way over to where Moody was holding open the door to his office with a pointed glare. Alice Longbottom's eyes were darting between the two, but at Moody's pointed stare she made her way to her desk and started going through her memos - though her eyes still flicked up and darted toward her husband every few seconds. When Frank walked in, Moody stumped in after him, the door slamming shut behind him.

“I’m giving you one chance, Longbottom, and one chance only, so you’d better have a damn good explanation. What the hell was that last night?” Moody demanded instantly. The only thing keeping him from yelling was the gossip-mongers in the Auror Office. As bad as teenage girls, he thought to himself derisively, seeing the curious eyes and swiveling heads snap back to their own work as he directed a sharp glare out through his window at the cubicles outside.

“We weren’t getting anywhere the way we were going,” Frank said, “and you were antagonizing him. I thought we had a better chance of getting answers if you two weren’t ready to draw wands on each other any second.” He quailed a little under the look Moody gave him at those words, but he held Moody’s gaze. Moody reluctantly gave the kid a little credit – he was sticking to his guns, and he was willing to say what he thought to his supervisor’s face, too. Moody wasn’t unaware of the effect he could have on the Junior Aurors and on the Trainees, but it was a carefully cultivated impression – mostly. It let him know who had the guts for the job and who wouldn’t be able to make the tough calls when the time came.

“And did it work?” Moody asked. His only acknowledgement that Frank might have had a point was to himself; no need to let the younger Auror get cocky over this.

“I’m not sure,” Frank said, and hurried on before Moody could take him to task for such a vague response. “I found out a little more, probably more than he meant to say, but he still left out quite a bit.”

Frank slid his written report onto Moody’s desk.

“He said he was homeschooled. He’s staying at the Leaky Cauldron, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have anywhere else to go – whatever happened to him between finishing his studies and now, I’m pretty sure he’s homeless. He admitted he doesn’t have any friends or family to give him a place to stay if he runs out of money. He said he’s applied for jobs, though, and mentioned a bookstore – if he gets a job at Flourish and Blotts, we’ll be able to find him again if we need to. And he also let slip that he doesn’t have any OWLs or NEWTs, or any other proof of his identity, which puts us in a tricky position if we ever want to use his testimony – and doesn’t do him much good either, if he’s trying to get his feet under him again.”

Moody conceded the point. It was unlikely, given the way the conversation had been going, that he would have been able to get much more out of the kid. He still wouldn’t admit that he couldn’t have gotten Harry to admit this much out of frustration, but Longbottom’s route had probably kept that bridge from being well and truly burned. Provoking answers out of the kid, while satisfying, may not have served them well in the long run – not if they wanted to recruit him to help the Order. And Moody was certain that’s where Albus’ mind was going, after having heard about what he’d done in Bexley. But there was one thing in this report that concerned him.

“Careful, Longbottom. Don’t get too attached. He seems like a decent kid, but we still don’t know much of anything about him – and we have jobs to do. You spend your life worrying about everyone you come across in a bad situation in this job, and you’ll burn out.”

Longbottom was a bleeding heart, Moody decided. The look on his face at those words said it all. He was young, and he might still grow out of it, but there were only three ways that happened; Aurors burnt out from trying to fix every problem in the world, they trusted the wrong person and ended up dead, or they got cynical and jaded. Moody knew himself well enough to admit he was the third. He hoped Longbottom wouldn’t get killed trying to care about everyone he met. And he could see the makings of a good Auror in Longbottom – if he had the chance to learn how. He didn’t want to see him burn out, either. Not when there were so few that he thought truly had potential.

“Alright,” Moody said, “That’s all for now. We’ll let this go, unless someone higher up wants to keep making something out of it. File a copy of the report with our folder on Lestrange, as well – even if the kid’s testimony can’t take her down, if we get something more on her, it can certainly help.”

Frank nodded and stood.

“Oh, and Crouch wants to meet with us,” Moody informed him as he was on his way out the door. Frank almost missed a step. Junior Aurors rarely met with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His shock was understandably – but not, Moody decided, permissible. “Constant Vigilance!” he barked, and Frank startled again, but recovered enough to send a glance over toward his wife, who was sending him a bright grin as she rolled her eyes at Moody’s words. He stomped over to her desk, making her lean back a little as he leaned in. She met his eyes fearlessly.

“Something to say, Longbottom?” he growled.

“No, sir,” she said blithely, completely unaffected. He was losing his touch. They were less intimidated every day – at least the ones that saw him often with the Order.

“That’s what I thought,” he snapped, and headed for the next desk over to berate Trainee Scrimgeour for his lackluster approach to his paperwork.

That afternoon, Frank was summoned to a meeting. He walked into the small room to find not only Moody and Director Crouch, but the Head Auror Meredith Zdenek as well. Moody looked as grumpy as he always did, Frank thought privately, but Madam Zdenek looked truly peeved. She and Director Crouch were already arguing as he walked in.

“I don’t see any point in pursuing this further,” Madam Zdenek was saying hotly. “The Auror Force is an elite group that ought to be fighting against the extremists, not hassling young men who acted heroically and did our jobs for us!”

“That’s not the point,” Director Crouch replied stiffly. “People need answers, and to continue taking a strong stand, Minister Minchum needs to show the wizarding world that these Death Eaters are not unstoppable – that they can be fought, and they can be beaten. That in the end, they are common thugs, not some kind of heroic pureblood movement defending wizarding culture. It’s for the good of the wizarding world!”

“So we encourage people to fight when they’re not prepared to? We use this boy as an example, when part of the reason his actions were so courageous is that they are something we cannot ask of the wizarding population at large? We would set him up as a target – a seventeen-year-old boy who has done nothing but save lives!”

“We have to do something! This is too good of an opportunity to pass up. Do you know how few true victories we can say we’ve had?”

“Then maybe instead of harassing witnesses you should be spending your time better! If you insist on playing politics, get us the funding and the manpower we need to truly combat these dark wizards the way we’re meant to!”

“I intend to see every one of them face justice!” Crouch’s stiffness had dissolved into a burning passion. “I intend to see every one of them sentenced to Azkaban for their crimes – and Kissed, if that is what it comes to! But we have to use all the tools we have to hand. If that means we attack first, if letting citizens defend themselves against threats with force is what it takes, I say good! If these Death Eaters break the law, they can face the consequences.”

“I don’t disagree that we need to enforce justice, but people are not pawns in your game of power, Bartemius. You and Minister Minchum already authorized my Aurors to use Unforgivables against You-Know-Who’s supporters, will you now extend that to citizens as well? Just how far are you willing to go to see your justice done?”

Frank stood frozen in the doorway. Both Director Crouch and Madam Zdenek were now on their feet, yelling into each other’s faces. He was sure he hadn’t been meant to walk in on this debate. He knew he didn’t want to be here. He met Moody’s impassive gaze, wide-eyed, and Moody gave him a nod. It wasn’t comforting.

“In here, Longbottom,” Moody growled, and Frank swore at Moody in his head as both those angry gazes turned on him. Madam Zdenek, at least, he saw regularly, even if they didn’t have much cause to speak outside of his work evaluations. Director Crouch, on the other hand, he had only seen occasionally, and from a distance. Up close, he was fairly intimidating; though Frank thought perhaps he’d been done a favor by having to deal with Moody the last couple years. At least after surviving Alastor Moody’s training regime, he knew better than to let his nerves show.

“My apologies, Auror Longbottom,” Madam Zdenek said. “This is not the time or place to discuss these matters.” The look she shot at Crouch dared him to disagree. “Please, sit down.”

Frank moved in to take a seat beside Moody, who slid another copy of the file over to him to match the three already on the table.

“You already have the reports,” Moody said, looking entirely unphased by this discussion with his superiors in the Department. “What more do you need from us? There’s nothing else we can do on this case unless something else happens. We don’t have enough to go to court.”

Madam Zdenek nodded agreement, but Crouch spoke first.

“Then we need to push harder on this Harry Neville kid. We’ve even got reason – he admits to a false last name? Sure, he helped, but we have no guarantees he’s not mixed up with something illegal.”

“We also have no evidence to suggest that he is,” Madam Zdenek said firmly, “and until I hear otherwise, I will not assign my Aurors to pursue this case any further.”

“Well?” Crouch looked at Moody and Frank. “That’s why you’re here, so we can hear your thoughts on this situation. You’re the ones who spoke with him – what’s your impression of him? Is he someone we can use?”

Frank barely held back a grimace at the callous way Crouch discussed using Harry. He kept his face carefully neutral and let Moody speak first.

“I don’t know what’s happened to Harry Neville in the past, but whatever it is, he doesn’t trust us worth a damn,” Moody said bluntly. “Unless you have a solid reason to talk to him again, any efforts you make are going to push him farther away from giving us any answers. That much was clear last night. He didn’t want anything to do with us, or with the Ministry.”

Crouch’s face soured, but he turned to Frank. “And you, Auror Longbottom? Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” he said carefully. “Lying about his last name is suspicious, I admit, but going by the rest of our conversation, I’d say he has good reason to be careful. It couldn’t be more obvious that he’s gone through something traumatic, and whether he’s running away or just has nothing to go back to, I think it’s more likely that he’s trying to make a fresh start than that he’s mixed up in something dangerous.”

“Fine,” Crouch said. “We’ll do nothing, yet. But I want someone checking in on him regularly. I want to know if anything changes.”

“Auror Longbottom, I’ll leave that to you,” Madam Zdenek said. “You seem to have been building rapport – or at least more so than anyone else. Don’t prioritize this over your other work,” she said pointedly, and Crouch mouth creased into a thin line, “but check in on him once in a while. Let us know if anything else happens.”

Frank nodded, and both of them stood and left the room. They exchanged no words on the way out, and Frank thought he could feel the chill in the air between them as they left.

When they were gone, he looked toward Moody, a little worried. He had no idea if that had gone well or not. Moody offered him a nod and a gruff, “Well done, Longbottom.”

Frank must have been gaping, because it quickly turned into a scowl. “What? You kept your head, and you stayed out of the politics. Now get back to work. What, are you expecting applause?”

Frank quickly headed back toward the Auror Office, feeling a little relieved. As stressful as it could be to deal with Moody’s high expectations and general attitude, he never knew how to respond to him when he wasn’t yelling at him for something. The rare acknowledgement and rarer praise he’d gotten during his training and probationary period had been shocking every time; he still wasn’t used to it. He felt much safer when they were back on familiar ground.

Harry got up early that morning, heading over to Madam Malkin’s the first chance he got. When he hesitantly enquired about second-hand robes, she informed him rather haughtily that her robes were absolutely adequate for any of his clothing needs, and she didn’t deal in inferior quality off-the-rack or handed-down garments. She softened just a little at his lost expression and handed him a small booklet.

“Look through that,” she informed him, “before you decide to go haring off to find some secondhand shop with robes that will fall apart on you after a year.” She swept off toward the fitting rooms to see to her next customer, and Harry was left clutching the booklet, which was titled in bright letters, _Everyday Styles for the Enterprising Wizard! A Buyer’s Guide._ On the cover was a picture of several wizards wearing tailored robes like those he’d seen on people around Diagon Alley, in a variety of colors. He opened it and began to flip through.

The prices were listed beside each, and while some of the fancier styles were expensive, many were the same price as his Hogwarts robes. The set of robes he had now were plain black, from school, and he knew that what he’d spent on those was more than he should spend now. He wasn’t sure he’d find anything cheaper, but Madam Malkin had seemed to think he would, so he kept flipping. Eventually, at the back, he found the section he thought she’d meant him to find.

_Refurbished Fabrics for the Prudent Buyer_ , it read, which he decided, after a moment, was a nice way of saying cheap. Exactly what he needed. They didn’t look too different from the rest of them, to his eye, but the prices dropped significantly, and he could afford one good set – maybe even two, if he spent a little more than he wanted.

Eventually, she made her way back over, and looked down on him with a piercing eye. “Well?” she asked. “Are you satisfied, or do you still insist on being pointed toward a secondhand shop?”

“No offense,” Harry said, confused, “but I don’t actually see the difference between these” he pointed at the page he was on, “and the other ones?”

She sighed, and rolled her eyes a little, and he realized that while she acted very much like the Madam Malkin he knew, she was definitely younger, and her dealings with customers was not as practiced as they would be in his time. “That, young man, is because you clearly have no concept of fashion or style,” she told him, and he almost snorted. That wasn’t exactly news to him, but he hadn’t been expecting her to say it.

“These,” she said, pointing at the page, “are clearly made from repurposed fabrics. Many customers prefer that their fabric be new cuts for new clothing. However, it is far cheaper if I use fabric from old robes or old projects.”

“Then,” Harry said, well aware he might only be digging himself a deeper hole, “isn’t that the same as buying a secondhand robe?”

She looked like she might be just about done with him, but she persisted. “No, because unlike a secondhand robe, this one still fits,” she informed him with a decidedly unimpressed air. “Secondhand robes are made for someone else – mine, though made out of old fabric, are tailored for you. An unimportant difference for someone who doesn’t care at all about their appearance,” she said, and the look she gave him spoke volumes in that she thought he definitely fell into that category, “but one that matters in the way you present yourself. Now, are you interested in purchasing a robe, or shall I direct you to a secondhand shop where you might prefer to take your custom?”

“Er,” Harry stuttered out in the face of this tirade, “No, that’s – I was just wondering. I’d like a new set of robes.”

“Very good, then,” she said, appearing satisfied. “And which style drew your eye?”

Harry stared down at the booklet once more, mind blank. After a few seconds, she snatched the booklet out of his hands. “This one,” she decided for him, and marched him away for a fitting. “I won’t even bother to ask your color preference – gray, blue, or green, I think. I’ll see what looks best when I’ve got your size and I have a better idea what you might wear.”

Dumbfounded, Harry let himself be ushered along. This was not how he remembered his Hogwarts fitting going. As he recalled, the only notable thing about it then had been his encounter with Draco Malfoy. Clearly, Madam Malkin had been very different when she was younger. He thought perhaps it was safest to just let her have her way.

After he’d gotten a set of new robes and changed into them, the day passed quickly in a whirlwind of activity. He went in for his first shift at Flourish and Blotts that afternoon and was greeted enthusiastically by Bernie – and much less enthusiastically by Melissa. She gave him a skeptical once-over when he came in before he was led on a tour of the bookshop. Bernie showed him around the front, telling him he should start getting familiar with their organizational system, and showed him a few of the more administrative functions of the Quick-Question Catalogue. He wondered idly if it had any similarity to a Quick-Quotes Quill and decided he would withhold judgement until he saw how well it worked, or didn’t, as the case may be.

Then they headed to the back rooms of the shop where customers weren’t permitted. There were two rooms; one an enormous room that looked like a warehouse, covered in piles of packages and parcels, and the other a small office tucked in the corner. Within the warehouse was housed what seemed to be a magical delivery system. Even as Harry watched, owls swooped in and out, and flames roared up from Floo fires set up on the wall, depositing parcels into a delivery system that brought them down to the shop room floor. Central in the room was some kind of contraption consisting of slides, pulleys, and floating platforms, all stretched out across the space and undulating like some kind of bizarre magical octopus. While he stood for a moment, staring, several packages dropped in, sliding down into the center of the system, the wrapping pulling itself off as they went. When they landed in the middle, they were lifted off by whatever piece they landed on, shunted sideways by the platforms and deposited in one of the surrounding piles of books.

“This,” Bernie said proudly, “is one of our very own inventions: the Volume Categorization System. Melissa’s taken to just calling her Vee, for short.”

As Harry was led around the space, he noticed that while the books were sorted into piles, there seemed to be no organization to where the pile of any particular title ended up. He saw copies of _The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1_ stacked beside _Spellman’s Syllabary_ on one side and some kind of – he squinted – a wizard on a broom sweeping away a woman who looked suspiciously like a half-transformed Veela – on the other. The title, in tiny squiggly cursive, read _Magical Romance, Book 8_ : _Adventures at Midnight._ The contraption – Vee, Harry thought to himself – was sorting them so that every copy of a book was in the same pile, but that seemed to be its limit, and Bernie confided in him that the sorter was finicky sometimes, cataloguing book piles next to each other by color or size or length seemingly on a whim. On alternate Thursdays, he added, it refused to work at all.

Harry would be working mostly on stocking books for now. He had thought that might be done magically as well, but realized that while his school books for the most part had been relatively normal, a vast quantity of magical books were far more particular, different ones responding badly to different spells.

“Safer all around this way,” Bernie told him cheerfully, “It works fine for Vee, because it doesn’t really do much more than identify them, but we couldn’t have something like that flying out into the shop front all the time. And the books are mostly harmless to people, anyway.”

“Er – mostly?” Harry queried. He’d just been vaguely reminded of Hagrid by Bernie’s tone of voice, and it wasn’t reassuring.

“Don’t worry,” Bernie said, “you’ll learn which ones are the tricky ones soon enough. And there’s a trick for all of them that will keep you perfectly safe.”

“Right,” Harry said. He eyed the books carefully, edging a little further away from one particularly precarious stack.

They walked into the small office in the back, where Bernie and, presumably, Mr. Flourish did their accounting, ordering, and other managerial duties.

“I might have you help out in here as well, on slow days, if it turns out you’ve got a knack for it,” Bernie told him, “but don’t you worry about that just yet – one thing at a time.”

Most of the rest of the orientation after that consisted of Bernie bringing things up in whatever order they occurred to him – “Oh, this over here, this is for checking inventory, did I mention that? No? Well, part of your job will be checking inventory…” – a style which Harry found oddly engaging, feeling far more awake than he had for lectures from his Professors in class, though he still wasn’t sure he’d remember it all come tomorrow.

Finally, toward the end of his orientation, Bernie handed Harry off to Melissa, to his apprehension and her displeasure. “Well,” she said grumpily, “I suppose you’ll have to know how to watch the desk, too. That’ll be your job if I have days off. Otherwise, you don’t come out here, you don’t need to talk to customers, you just do whatever else Mr. Blotts has you doing in the back.”

He got the impression that she thought he was some kind of penniless dissolute, up to no good. Well, she wasn’t wrong about the penniless part, he thought wryly. Strangely, her bad opinion didn’t seem to bother him the way all the rumors had always irritated him at Hogwarts – good and bad. Perhaps, he thought, it was because she was judging him only on himself, not on news articles and hearsay. Even if her judgement was – well, judgmental. Either she would warm up to him or she wouldn’t. It might be awkward to work there if she decided she didn’t like him, beyond her obvious doubt of his capabilities, but he’d lived with far worse situations.

After she’d shown him how to run the till and keep track of orders, he was done for the day. His first real day of work would begin in the morning. In the meantime, he was famished. Between the night at the inn and the new robes he’d bought – two sets, he’d decided in the end, because his old ones probably weren’t suitable for work, judging by the looks he got on the street in them, and he didn’t think he could get away with wearing the same ones every day – he had a few sickles and knuts left to his name, and that was all. He wasn’t spending anymore nights at the Leaky Cauldron, that was for sure – but the few people that knew him in this time as Harry Neville knew that was where to reach him – and it was the only address he’d been able to give when he’d done his employment paperwork for the Ministry.

A quick stop in at the bar let him know that Tom was willing to hold onto any mail that might come if he stopped in to pick it up regularly. He tried to ignore the sympathetic look Tom gave him, but thankfully, the bartender didn’t ask where he planned to go in the meantime. As much as he didn’t mind camping out for a week, having done it for most of the past year under far worse circumstances, he knew it wouldn’t sound good to admit he was sleeping under a transfigured tree in the middle of the woods.

There was a small grocer’s market on the corner between Diagon Alley and Horizont Alley, and it was there that Harry stopped to pick up some food for the next few days, handing over two of his remaining Sickles.

Then he was left with much of the afternoon free, and nothing urgent he needed to do. He’d found work, he had somewhere to stay (even if it was a tree), and he had no money to spend on other errands. There was nothing he could do about proving his identity, as far as he was aware, and he wasn’t instrumental in the war effort against Voldemort. Finding himself at loose ends, he considered his options. He ought to start trying to find a way back to his own time. The Ministry was off limits unless he found a more believable identity than Harry Neville, and he couldn’t afford any books – and as nice as Bernie had been, he doubted he’d let him borrow books with a promise of payment later. He was running a business, after all. And Harry was well aware of how suspicious his lack of references, job experience, or any kind of evidence of schooling made him look.

He had never spent a lot of time exploring the Wizarding World in his own time, but he hoped there might be one more option. Hermione had always been able to find them answers when they needed them. She wasn’t here now, though. But Ron’s voice rang through his head, the memory crystal clear, bringing a smile to his face and putting purpose in his step.

“That’s what Hermione does. When in doubt, go to the library.”

Most shoppers were hurrying past, heads down and going about their business. Few were willing to talk to a stranger on the streets, but Harry’s youth worked in his favor this time. A few people, looking past his discount robes and war-weary posture, saw a boy just out of school, looking a little lost. The first two people he asked weren’t from London, just visiting Diagon Alley, and weren’t able to help him. The third person who stopped was a woman who reminded him very much of Mrs. Weasley as she clucked a little over his state and told him he ought to eat more, really dear, he was awfully thin. And oh, he was looking for the library? What a studious and responsible young man he was. She was more than happy to give him directions to the Magical Library of London. If there were any answers for him to be found outside the Department of Mysteries, Harry decided, they would be there.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry had never seen a public library so strange. He had rarely been to muggle libraries, of course, the Dursleys hadn’t wanted him to be seen in public, but nevertheless he had a feeling they bore little resemblance to this one.

When he found the library, he was relieved that it was still within Magical London – he wouldn’t have fancied trying to find the right phone booth or derelict store to walk through before he figured out how to get into a muggle-proofed building. But the library was firmly within wizarding territory, two streets past Horizont Alley. He’d been told to look for Wits’ Road, but when he found it, he realized the library the street was on was actually called Wits’ End, which made him let out a soft snort of amusement. He hadn’t realized the magical district went so far beyond Diagon Alley, but without the need to hide it from the muggles, the Greater London Area Wizarding Athenaeum was impossible to miss.

It dwarfed the shops and houses around it, standing out against the skyline. He’d been able to see it as soon as he passed Horizont, an enormous dome reaching up toward the sky. When he got closer he could see that the building was set atop lofty marble columns, floor upon floor of them, pillars on slabs supported by pillars. It was, Harry thought, much like he might have imagined the grand buildings of Ancient Greece. He had a vague memory of seeing columns and pillars like this in primary school, and his History of Magic book had pictures like this as well, though he couldn’t remember what the book had said about them.

The enormous pillars formed a circle, bending away from the eye and continuing around the side of the building. Massive glass windows curved between the pillars, filling in the spaces. He couldn’t see beyond them; they seemed to shine like crystal, and to look through them would make the glass blinding in its radiance. Opening onto the street was an enormous archway, capturing the eye and forming a long and graceful arc over the front façade of the building. On it was inscribed in enormous letters, “Greater London Area Wizarding Athenaeum.” At least he knew he was in the right spot.

Beneath it, there was no door. Instead, there was a shimmer in the air, looking almost like soap, stretched thin into bubbles. Even as he watched, a wizard made his way inside, stepping into the shimmer and disappearing from view. Ripples spread out from where the man had touched the thin bubble, and spread quickly around the building, waves nearly invisible to the eye echoing out from column to column. He almost thought he could feel them more than see them, in the same way that they had all begun to sense the wards around their campsites during the last year. As they had gotten better at casting them, it had become harder and harder to find their way back to the campsite if they stepped outside the magical boundary. They knew they were there, an invisible circle marking out the borders, but the magic wasn’t something they could see, and he and Ron (Hermione had been meticulously careful) had sometimes wandered beyond the border and couldn’t see the campsite anymore. After a few close calls, where one of them had walked too far and couldn’t get back, they had learned to feel the boundary line, and they knew when they got close to crossing it. If they had left, and the others didn’t pull them back in, they might never have found their way back, unable to see beyond the protective magics.

Someone bumped his shoulder as they hurried by, and he realized he had been standing and gaping in the middle of the street. Everyone else had their heads down, and they were rushing past as quickly as possible, trying to get done and get home, inside closed doors. He closed his mouth hurriedly and glanced around. The only other exception was an older couple walking toward the library who had paused to see him gawking and looked amused at his expense; they, like him, seemed in no great hurry. No one else seemed to be paying any attention at all. It was another sobering reminder of the realities of this time: they were still at war, and everyone was afraid.

He walked quickly toward the library, and in his haste he didn’t realize he’d caught up with the older couple until the woman was beside him, smiling over at him. “First time here, dear?” she asked kindly, and he blushed with embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s nice to see people appreciating our library,” she said. “We’re sponsors, you know, Nicolas and I. It’s a beautiful thing, a good library, but only when it’s being used – and appreciated!”

Harry nodded. "Yeah, first time."

The man who must have been Nicolas laughed, arm in arm with his wife. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he said, mirth in his voice, “Of course, you have to appreciate the books as much as you appreciate the building! Though this is a particularly fine piece of architecture-“

“Oh, don’t get him started,” the woman said, slapping his arm. He looked offended as she cut him off, but Harry could see the humor beneath it. “He could go on about this all day,” she continued, his look of mock hurt growing. “The builders this, the building that-“

“It’s a perfectly valid thing, to want to know about the world we live in, or it is if you’ve got any natural curiosity” he countered, looking at her pointed. It was her turn to look aggrieved, and Harry thought that never had he seen such a perfect example of the phrase ‘bickering like an old married couple.’

“And besides, Perenelle, this young man here might want to know! You don’t know that he doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that he does,” she shot back.

Harry broke in, having lost track of the threads of the conversation. “Er, sorry – know what? And your name’s Perenelle?”

“Oh, yes, I did forget, didn’t I? Yes, I’m Perenelle. And what’s your name then?”

“Harry,” he offered awkwardly, and put out a hand to shake hers.

She tucked her hand back into her husband’s arm. “Well, Nicolas was wondering-“

“I was wondering,” he said, clearly not trusting Perenelle to give an unbiased account, “if you wanted to know the history of the building? Who built it, and when, and what it was modeled on? So few people take an interest in history these days, young people are all just hurrying about, ready to get to the next place and know what they need to know for today and the next day. No thought of generations, or legacies, or years of stored knowledge valued for its own sake-“

“And he’s off,” Perenelle sighed. “The best thing you can do now, Harry, is just smile and nod along. He’ll lose steam eventually.”

They reached the library doors, and Nicolas leaned over conspiratorially. “Now this, young Harry, is one of my favorite things about the Athenaeum,” he said, and removed his arm from Perenelle’s so that he could poke the shining, glimmering bubble.

It bent around his finger, like gleaming liquid silver, and the ripples began to spread outward. “What is it?” Harry asked.

“Oh, this and that,” he said, looking mysterious. Perenelle sighed.

“All that about teaching history and gaining knowledge, and you’re going to choose now to let the rest of us get a word in?”

“Some things,” he said with great pomp, “are better understood by experience, not explanation.” And he stepped forward into the barrier.

“Well, he is right about that,” Perenelle agreed. “Go on, dear. It’s nothing to be worried about – and it certainly is quite the experience.”

Harry wasn’t sure that was a strong recommendation. He had been through many things by now in the Wizarding World that were ‘quite the experience’, and most of them he had no desire to ever experience again. But it was a _library_. What could it possibly do to him?

Perenelle held out her arm. “Be a gentleman and walk me in, won’t you? Since Nicolas has left me behind.”

He took her arm, and when she stepped forward, he followed.

The silvery liquid felt weird, cool on his skin, and it sucked him forwards. It wasn’t a dizzying journey like Floo Powder or Apparition – it felt almost more like passing through a sheet of rain, if the rain were solid – a sheet of water, perhaps, held upright, but one that didn’t leave you wet. It pulled at him as he walked through, clinging a little, but when he was through it left no trace.

As impressive as the building had been from the outside, it was nothing compared to what he saw now. The space had more than trebled in size. He stood within an enormous dome, the crystalline windows shining in light from what looked to be places all around the world; jungles, deserts, starlit skies, cities and oceans all appeared to be just outside. Above him, glass covered the ceiling as well, glowing with a soft and gentle light, interrupted only by tall stone towers that followed the outer edge of the walls. He turned slowly to look, craning his neck to look upward where the towers spun up through the ceiling and reached further toward the sky. Each one seemed to break through the ceiling, and they went up beyond Harry’s sight. From the middle of the towers, the ceiling rose, arcing between the stone structures to meet at one central tower, taller than all the rest. They were set just far enough away from the windows that they didn’t obstruct his view. When he looked down, he saw that below him were bookcases, and he realized he stood upon a mezzanine, and below and in front of him were shelves upon shelves of books. Marble pillars marched in a line toward the center of the library, forming enormous multi-storied corridors As far as his eye could see there were rows and rows of shelves, all filled with books and ladders – larger even than the Hogwarts library. The corridors of bookshelves stretched around the circle, each branching outward from the center and meeting a tower on the outside, like spokes of an enormous wheel.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Perenelle said, smiling softly. He looked at her, and something of the awe in his face was reflected in hers. “It gets me every time. It’s worth it to come in the front entrance, once in a while. The Floo just doesn’t compare.”

“The entrance holds in the expansion charms,” she explained. “And it also serves as a ward against book thieves, or anyone with intent to do harm to the archives here. Not everyone is happy to have history recorded, especially if it isn’t _their_ history, but the library stands for truth and knowledge, and preserves that which many would prefer forgotten. And there are other things in here as well – darker knowledge, ancient knowledge, theories that have been debunked and practices that no longer hold sway. But the library is a repository, not a court, and it refuses to stand in judgement of the knowledge it carries – or to let others do so.”

Nicolas had waited for them just inside, and now he pointed up. Where the first hall began, just in front of them, another enormous marble arch crested the gap from pillar to pillar, connecting the opposite walls. Inscribed upon it were the words “Verba volant, scripta manent.”

“Spoken words fly away, written words remain,” Nicolas said. “Not that most who come here would know it. The words are written here, but they only remain as long as people can read them. Do you speak Latin, Harry?” he asked suddenly. Harry felt suddenly under scrutiny, as if he’d been given a pop quiz that he knew he was going to fail.

“Er, no, sir,” he said, and Nicolas huffed. “Such a shame, they don’t teach it in schools anymore,” he said.

“When did they? Last teach it at Hogwarts, I mean?” Harry asked, sure that Hermione would have been incandescently furious if she had discovered that Latin had been struck from the curriculum anytime within the last fifty years.

“Oh, not since the early 1900s, I shouldn’t think,” Nicolas said thoughtfully. “Such a shame,” he said again, shaking his head. Perenelle rolled her eyes.

“Well, Harry, we’ve seen you into the library – I’m delighted to be the first to welcome you to the Athenaeum. But it can be a little overwhelming your first time here. If you’re just off to go read on your own, we won’t be offended, but we’re just here to browse a bit, wander around the stacks – would you like some help finding what you’re looking for?”

“That would be amazing,” Harry said forcefully, and his relief was so obvious that they both burst out laughing. He grinned. “I don’t think I’d even know where to start in all this. If it’s not too much trouble?”

“Not at all,” Perenelle insisted.

“Well, let’s give you a tour,” Nicolas said. “It would be a waste of a fine young mind to deny you the pleasures of hours whiled away before the thrones of Knowledge and Wisdom. On we go!”

Harry privately wondered if all wizards got eccentric as they got older. Dumbledore and Ollivander certainly had been, and Nicolas seemed like he might be shaping up to be another incredibly strange but brilliant man. And Alastor Moody – he hid a smile – had always been his own special brand of eccentric.

The couple led him through the twisting halls, past great oaken desks where librarians spoke with their patrons, through graceful twisting skywalks that seemed to wander almost on a whim around the ceilings of the library, and past reading rooms and reference desks, through archives of crumbling scrolls and a bright, cheery room filled with cushions and small tables for children’s books. They even passed briefly through a section labeled RESTRICTED ACCESS: Ask for help, dangerous books present. Nicolas and Perenelle, however, did not pause, and swept through without a single thought of stopping for an attendant. They both seemed to know exactly where they were going.

When they had wandered for what felt like hours, Harry thought he perhaps hadn’t even seen half of what was hidden away in this building; it was like discovering Hogwarts all over again, something new and wonderful around every corner and past every turn. But he could spend days here and never find what he was looking for, and the afternoon had already been wearing on by the time he arrived. It must be well on toward evening now, he thought, glancing toward a window – but, of course, the windows were no help at all.

“Perhaps, Nicolas, he doesn’t need to see every corner of the library,” Perenelle hinted gently, catching his glance and bringing her husband to a halt with a practiced turn in her step. “And it is always wonderful to have something left to discover on one’s own.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Nicolas said, “I suppose you have other things to do then, don’t you? Young people are always in such a hurry, bustling about with their jobs and their friends and such. And nowadays, of course, it isn’t wise to linger after dark.” His face darkened, the first time Harry had seen him look so grim. Perenelle’s lips tightened as well, little creases on her face showing a firm disapproval of the circumstances facing Magical England. But neither one of them looked the slightest bit afraid.

“What did you come here to look for?” Nicolas asked curiously.

Harry hesitated for a moment, unsure. Sharing his dilemma with two complete strangers, no matter how nice they had been, was a terrible idea. But he wouldn’t be able to get much farther without help; it was ask them, or ask a librarian. He would never find it on his own, not in here. He didn’t have to tell them everything.

“I’m, well – I’m looking for information on time travel?”

Nicolas lit up. It wasn’t the reaction Harry had been expecting.

“A scholar, are you? A theorist?” The old man looked excited. “Are you looking at the implications of Arithmancy and its formulary principles of the chronological rhythm? Or are you looking at it from the Ancient Runes perspective, with the ongoing attempts to find a runic demarcation of the concept of lastingness and the precepts of instances within an infinity? Have you read Morsmith’s _The Continuance of Continuity_ or Rathbourne’s _Stretching Places and Moments: Magical Expansion of Space and Time_? Or are you looking for something more particular, like the transcripts of _Seasons and Tides: A Translation_? Of course, the original Elder Futhark is a far superior document, and so much of the nuance is lost in the transcripts, but there are so _few_ who can truly read Ancient Runes nowadays and not just translate them with _Spellman’s Syllabary_.”

Harry stared at him, at a complete loss.

“Ah,” Nicolas said, and visibly walked himself back. “A little more of an amateur in the field, then?”

“Yeah, yeah I reckon so,” Harry said, dazed. It was like talking to Hermione dialed up to eleven. At least she knew he and Ron wouldn’t keep up and made an effort to bring it down to a somewhat comprehensible level.

Perenelle patted her husband’s arm. “Not everyone is you, dear,” she said, somehow making it sound condescending without a hair of her expression looking anything but sincere. Nicolas grumbled something inaudible at her, and she smirked back.

“So why the interest?” she asked Harry. “And how much of a background do you have? Nicolas is interested in all sorts of obscure branches of theory and magic, but he can sometimes go beyond mere scholarly academics into pure erudition, where no one has a hope of following.”

“They would if they would just keep up,” he grumbled, but this sounded to Harry like a well-tread argument, and it was one he was staying well out of.

“Well, I know a bit about the consequences of time travel,” he said, “and the limitations. And-“ he paused for a second. Had time turners been invented yet? “-I know about paradoxes, and not talking to yourself, and that you can’t go back too far-“

“Nonsense,” Nicolas interrupted. “Utter nonsense. Theoretically, it all depends on the _function_ of time travel, and on the relational nature of points in time and the equalization of dimensional factors. So the possibility of distance, if you will, is far from certain, and the consequences depend entirely upon the method and functionality – and upon the outcomes of an individual’s decisions within any given instance within the infinite continuity of time. But, ah, that’s not what you were asking,” he said, rubbing at his beard thoughtfully.

Harry’s face had taken on the glazed, blank expression with which Hermione had been so familiar during their time at Hogwarts. Nicolas looked at him for a moment and sighed.

“Alright, then,” he said. “To basics. First, if you have considered paradoxes, consequences, and limits, you are working far more with the theoretical implications of time travel than with the practical methodologies, would you agree?”

“Er, yes?” Harry said. He was almost sure he had followed that statement.

“So, the question then becomes, are you interested _only_ in continuing to pursue that particular line of inquiry, or are you interested in the theories of methods and procedures that might permit time travel as well?” he asked.

“All of it, I suppose,” Harry said, and Nicolas nodded.

“This way, then. And do keep up.”

For an old man, he set a remarkably quick pace. Harry hastened to keep up as he ducked nimbly around corners and darted down staircases. Perenelle easily matched their pace, managing to look as if she wasn’t hurrying at all.

They went down one of the hallways to a small section with a ladder slowly drifting through the air down the shelves. Nicolas whistled, and it perked up, zooming over toward him eagerly.

“Here we are,” he said, and pointed at the outside wall. The window looked to be facing out over the pyramids of Egypt, a massive Sphinx staring at them, slowly blinking. “Look for the Sphinx wall when you come, and then come down this hallway, and you’ll be able to find it.”

Harry put a hesitant hand on the ladder, and it zoomed excitedly up toward the top shelf. He tightened his grip, thankful for his Seeker reflexes, and swung his legs around to land his feet on the rung.

“Is it supposed to do this?” he shouted down at the couple.

“Calm down, you’re doing just fine!” Nicolas shouted back at him. Perenelle was kindly hiding her smile behind an upraised hand, only the upturned corners of her mouth giving her away.

“You have to direct it!” she called merrily up to him, and he groaned, calling back, “Direct it how?”

He tried to steer it like he would a broom, but it only got more excited.

“You’re in a library, dear, not on a Quidditch pitch!” she called up. Nicolas was now nearly doubled over in laughter. “Manners, child. Manners are everything!”

He looked down at the ladder, which seemed to hesitate under his gaze, pausing to gather itself. It felt, Harry thought, rather like he was holding onto a very large dog, vibrating with excitement and only restrained for a moment before it bounded onward.

“Could you please take me to the time magic section?” he asked. The ladder bounced a little, as if in a nod, before zooming back and forth from one shelf to the next.

“Er – no, wait, stop,” he called out, thankful that he was not easily motion sick, and that he had ridden brooms more determined to throw him off than this. “Please stop a minute!” The ladder halted.

“Is this-“ he almost felt silly, talking to a ladder, but carried on, “Is this whole thing the time magic section?”

“It’s a ladder, boy, not a librarian!” Nicolas bellowed from below. Perenelle shushed him vigorously, and he rolled his eyes at her, but obediently moderated his voice a little. “It can’t talk, and it’s certainly not a reference desk! Just be specific!”

“Alright, take me to books on time magic for beginners, then,” he said, adding a hasty “please” when it twitched under his hands. The ladder finally seemed to calm and drifted sedately toward a shelf in the middle of the section, where it came to a gentle halt and hovered, waiting. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief and let his hand drift over the titles, tracing them with his finger.

_Beginning Theories of Chronomancy, A Guide to Ancient Time Runes, Advanced Arithmantic Theory Book 3: Universal Continuity, My Year in the Future by Elias Gibberalt, Seasonal Temporal Disturbances and their Consequences, A History of Time Travel –_ Harry took that one out and began to flip through it. It looked more like an encyclopedia than anything – he thought perhaps he would need a good reference book. Many of the words Nicolas had been using had been utterly incomprehensible.

He took out _Beginning Theories of Chronomancy_ as well, but just opening it he could see pages full of runes and formulas – it seemed like those were the two main theories of time travel. He was pretty sure they were what Nicolas had mentioned earlier, as well. He slid out _A Guide to Ancient Time Runes,_ but it seemed to assume he had a basic understanding of Runic Theory, when all he knew about the subject was what he’d picked up from Hermione when she’d been gushing about her coursework. He and Ron had blown off her study schedules to play Wizards’ Chess; he was starting to wish he’d spent a little more time listening. He already knew that _Advanced Arithmantic Theory_ went well over his head. Even beginning Arithmancy was a total mystery to him.

This was going to be harder than he’d thought.

“Down, please,” he told the ladder dispiritedly, and it sank slowly to the floor.

He had kept hold of _A History of Time Travel_ , and decided that was where he would start. And as soon as he could start saving money, he would buy the beginning books for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes from Flourish and Blotts and start teaching himself. But he knew it would be a long time before he understood enough to get any answers – if he ever did. At least he had more motive to figure this out than the Ministry researchers, even if he lacked the resources and experience.

Despite everything, he found himself looking forward to it a little bit. Learning something new, without the stress of grades or the expectations of teachers hanging over his head? Diving into magic he’d hardly heard of? When he’d first gotten his books for Hogwarts, he’d been so excited to read them, flipping through them before he set off for school to discover more about the world he was joining. This felt a little like it; he was opening himself up to a whole new world, and he was excited for what he would find.

At the bottom, Perenelle looked at him with sympathy. She had seen his moment of doubt. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Harry – at least not the muggle part,” she told him. “Give it time. You’re not going to become an expert overnight. Goodness knows it’s certainly taken Nicolas longer than that.”

They exchanged a little look between them, and Harry figured that even if Perenelle was going to comment on their age, he knew better than to agree with her on that subject.

“I should be on my way out soon,” he said. “And I really appreciate all this. Thank you,” he said emphatically, and the gratitude in his voice gave away a little more than he’d meant to.

Both of them smiled, and Nicolas laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder. “You’re welcome, Harry,” he said. “It’s always a pleasure to see a bright young mind engaged in inquiry.”

“It was our pleasure,” Perenelle told him. “And thank _you_ , for indulging a pair of old scholars today. I hope you’ll come back.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Harry said, and meant it. “But what do I do with this?” he asked, and held up his book.

“Oh, of course, you haven’t been here before! You’ll need a library card,” she told him

They led him up to the desk and introduced him to a library clerk, a young man named Trevor. For a single inexplicable moment, Harry pictured Neville’s toad sitting in a library checking out books, then dismissed the mad image. Trevor was a cheerful, tow-headed man who looked to be in his twenties. There was certainly no resemblance.

“I just need your wand, then,” Trevor told him, and held out a small card. “Press the tip of your wand here, please, would you?” Harry did, and it lit up.

“Alright, now tell it your name and address.”

“Harry Neville,” Harry said. “And I’m moving,” he told Trevor, “but I work at Flourish and Blotts, if that’s good enough?”

“It’ll work for now, but update it with us when you can,” Trevor told him, and handed him the card. “They can get finicky sometimes if they think you’re taking the books too far away, especially the more valuable ones. Some of them refuse to check themselves out.”

Harry thanked him and walked over to where Nicolas and Perenelle were waiting. They had ended up in the center of the building, and from here he could see that on the end of each long hallway was a fireplace for the Floo, each one covered with that same strange, silvery ward.

“We’d best be on our way now,” Perenelle told him. “If you’re going out the front, it’s just that way – you can see the arch from here.

And he could, though it was a long way down the hallway, and looked hardly larger than his book from where they stood.

“Or there’s Floos here,” Nicolas told him, “and the Apparition point is just upstairs.” He pointed to an elevator tucked into a nook between bookshelves. “Center of the room, can’t miss it.”

“I think I’ll Apparate back, thanks,” Harry said.

“Well, if you ever want to indulge an old couple again and talk about magical theory, do leave a card at the desk, won’t you? The library will get it to us.”

“Er – What was your last name? I didn’t catch it, sorry.”

Perenelle looked at him for a long moment, then her smile grew brighter, and Nicolas, at her side, let out a hearty laugh. “Flamel, dear,” she said, and leaving him with an open mouth, they stepped neatly into the Floo grate and were whisked away.

_Flamel,_ Harry thought, going numb with disbelief _. Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel_. _I can’t believe I missed that._

He stared in shock at the flames as they faded back to orange, before turning abruptly to take the elevator upstairs and apparate back to the Forest of Dean for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to write Frank and Moody, I swear - especially with how much you all seem to love them! I never expected this kind of response! But not this chapter - the library turned into its own special thing, and I didn't want to cut it off without doing it justice. Libraries are special places, after all. I promise we'll see more of them eventually, though!
> 
> As always, thanks so much to Becky for both the British-isms and the beta-ing! (We agonized over this library description until we got something approximating my vision of what this magical library could be. Hopefully it makes sense now!)
> 
> I love every one of your comments! <3 I appreciate you all so much. I never thought I'd get this much response on my story! If you're here, please do leave a comment, I love to hear that you're enjoying the story. And thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished my Camp NaNo goal! As a celebration, here's another chapter. :)
> 
> As always, thank you all SO SO much for the comments and kudos! <3 let me know what you think down in the comments

When James and Lily Potter arrived that evening, Edgar Bones was expecting them. The Order was holding a meeting, and soon twenty or so people would be crammed into his modest sitting room. From the outside, a passerby on the street would have thought nothing more was going on there than a man coming home after a long day of work. The Order members had long months of practice at arriving undetected, and Apparated in to points around the neighborhood before making their way to the back door of the house, Floo’d through to the fireplace from a secure, warded connection, or flew in from nearby, concealed by disillusionment charms or invisibility cloaks.

The Order had a meeting planned for that night, but James thought the usual business seemed likely to be derailed; no one yet but Dumbledore had heard the latest updates on the hero of Bexley, and while a more rigid and official unit might have held to strict discipline, the Order was comprised of individual citizens working as vigilantes and activists against a threat to their families and homes, and they were much more given to indulging their bouts of curiosity. James and Lily had both admitted to a good deal of curiosity themselves earlier that evening. Neither of them was working a normal job at the moment; they had dedicated themselves full-time to the Order, able to live more than comfortably off of James’ family funds and the income from his investments.

James rapped softly on the back door, and Edgar came to greet them.

“James, Lily,” he said warmly, pulling the door open. “Come in.”

Edgar was older than they were, probably in his late thirties or early forties if James had to guess. James was pretty sure he did some kind of accounting work, but he’d never asked exactly what. He and Lily had only met their family once; his wife Anna usually took their two toddlers upstairs during the Order meetings.

“Hello, Edgar,” Lily said. “How is Anna?”

“Good, good!” Edgar said, smiling. “And the terrible two are down for bed already, so she might step in to say hello before the meeting starts. I think she’s hoping to catch Marlene McKinnon to say hello. They were at Hogwarts together, you know.”

A circle of sofas surrounded the Floo, and Edgar had already pulled in all the chairs from the dining room as well in an attempt to provide more seats. As the three of them walked in, they found Anna in the sitting room. The front windows were shuttered and the blinds closed, but the room was lit with magical orbs. The wall to their right as they came in held bookcases and several small chests, to which Anna was banishing a small hoard of toy brooms, stuffed animals, and noisemakers.

They exchanged greetings as Anna magicked the chests closed.

“Are we the first ones here?”

“Yes, though I think Marlene should be coming through any second now,” Anna replied. “Don’t mind the mess; we only just got Patrick and Eliza upstairs to sleep, and they were none too happy about bedtime.”

James laughed, but Lily got a wistful look in her eye. They’d been talking about kids for the last year, and he knew she was hoping to have some of their own soon.

“Get you something?” Edgar asked, stepping back over to the kitchen, but they both shook their heads. The Floo roared green, and Marlene McKinnon stepped neatly through. She wrapped Anna in a tight hug before coming to do the same for Edgar, Lily, and James. Marlene was a hugger.

“It’s so good to see you all well,” Marlene said, and there was a tightness to her eyes and a shadow behind her smile. Marlene had been spending more and more time closeted with Dumbledore after meetings, and James thought perhaps she was doing something more dangerous than most of them knew. She always seemed so unspeakably relieved to see them still alive, as if she thought she might never see them again, as if any day now would be her last.

“How’s Adela? And the rest of your family?” James asked. Marlene’s younger sister Adela had been their year, and she and Lily had been good friends, even though Adela had been a Ravenclaw. The middle child, Godfrey, had been Head Boy their third year.

“They’re all quite busy,” Marlene said cheerfully. “Let’s sit, I’m dead on my feet.”

She sank into one of the couches. Anna began to say something, but a yell from upstairs cut her off, and she let out a long-suffering sigh.

“I suppose that’s my cue,” she said. “I might come down later, if this doesn’t take long – but I’ll see you after the meeting?”

“Definitely,” Marlene said, and Anna headed for the next room. They heard her soft footsteps on the stairs, and the screaming cut off, subsiding into quiet, muffled wails.

“Well, I’m glad I don’t have any of those,” Marlene said, and Edgar laughed.

“You can borrow ours anytime.” Marlene gave an exaggerated shudder.

Another knock came on the back door, and Edgar went to answer it. The Floo lit up again, and Caradoc Dearborn came through, giving them a nod before heading to find Edgar. Lily and James sat together on the couch next to Marlene’s while they waited for their friends. James knew that Lily was hoping to snag Alice for a quick word before the meeting started – the two women had been friends for years, and both Potters knew there was a good chance Alice would know more about what was going on than they were.

“Adela’s fiancé is in town, so I’ve been staying away,” said Marlene. “They’re disgustingly cheerful and sappy. And Godfrey’s gone and disappeared into the observatory again, so we imagine we might see him again in a month or so.” Godfrey was an astronomer, and had a tendency to get lost in his work, relying on the house elves to deliver sandwiches and only emerging when a spate of bad weather obliged him to give up on his star charts until the sky was clear again.

Edgar, Benjy and Caradoc emerged from the back, and Sirius showed up not long after, tumbling through the Floo and making his way over to James and Lily with a broad grin and an enthusiastic greeting.

One by one, the rest of the members arrived, but the ones everyone was waiting on were the last to show. Dumbledore came in just before the start of the meeting, Flooing in from his office in Hogwarts. Moody, Frank, and Alice had still not arrived.

The Order slowly assembled in Edgar’s living room, taking seats on chairs, couches, and comfortable corners of the floor, or standing in small clusters. It was a small group, but a lively one, although many of the members shared little besides a common cause. They were different ages, from different backgrounds and professions, and they weren’t all friends with one another – in fact, personalities frequently clashed. But they were all currently united in their desire to know more about the hero of Bexley – it took only minutes of gossip before they all knew his name was Harry Neville. Somehow, everyone knew that Edgar had been present when Dumbledore and Moody last met, but he would only say to wait for the meeting, and that he didn’t know much.

Dumbledore had stood to begin the meeting when Frank, Alice, and Moody came in through the back of the house. They were frequently late or absent because of their positions as Aurors, but today, they looked exhausted. James didn’t envy the first person to ask Moody something today – he thought the irritation on his face said clearly that they would be just as likely to get hexed as to get an answer.

Alice tugged Frank over toward James and Lily. They had been joined by Peter and Remus not long after Sirius showed up, and had squished in all together on one of Edgar’s long, cushioned couches. Alice and Frank sat next to them, but beyond nodding a tired greeting, they said nothing. Moody made his way up toward Dumbledore and stood off to the side, glowering out at the room.

“Welcome, all of you,” Dumbledore said, gazing out over the room. He wore a smile, but it was more faded and worn than the smiles James had seen as a student, and behind his half-moon glasses his eyes were sharp and serious. “It’s good to see that everyone was able to make it tonight, and that you’re all doing well.” A soft murmur of greeting rolled back at him. Alice, James noted, waved hello, but Frank hardly blinked from where he was collapsed into her side, looking exhausted.

“To business.” At that, everyone sat up a little straighter or leaned in, curious. James exchanged a glance with Lily, and despite everything, he felt a little excitement rising in his chest. Yes, the war was grim and dark, but everything he’d heard about the Hero of Bexley was amazing – and James had thought, for a moment when he’d first heard the news, of what it would be like if that were him – out fighting Death Eaters, going toe to toe with them to defend peoples’ lives. Most of what he and Lily had done had not been so confrontational – and sometimes he felt as if the older members, especially the Aurors, were still trying to shelter them – still seeing them as kids even though they were out of school.

When he began the meeting, Dumbledore’s face was grave.

“We have a rumor that the Death Eaters are going to be mounting a major attack. Hogwarts supply letters are going out within the next few weeks, and it seems likely that Diagon Alley is one possible target – an attack there, when most of our families and children are there, would be devastating. I would like to post a rotating watch in Diagon Alley, and possibly on our other identified potential targets as well. And everyone must be ready; if there is an attack on such a scale, we cannot allow it to go uncontested, and the Ministry most likely will not be quick to respond. Alastor, will some of the Aurors be ready?”

“I can put it in as a tip, but we get so many of those these days, it’s unlikely we’ll do much more than what’s already being done. There’s an Auror posted in Diagon Alley at all times now, but if they don’t get the alarm out, it will take a long time for backup to show. I’ll see what I can do.”

James glanced at Lily, and she nodded, seeing the resolve in his eyes. “We can be there, Albus,” she said for both of them. “We’ll be happy to take shifts in Diagon Alley.”

“Me and Pete can come too,” Sirius threw in, shooting them a grin. Peter looked nervous, but resolved, and he nodded his agreement.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Remus said apologetically. “My position is precarious already – with both the Ministry and the werewolf packs. If I jeopardize their trust by showing that I stand with the Order openly, we might lose all the progress I’ve made. And no one will feel safer with me in Diagon,” he added bitterly. James hated to see his friend like this – in school, without the shadow of war cast over them all, Remus had never been so bitter. He struggled, yes, but not like this – he’d had far more hope for some kind of normal life after Hogwarts than he seemed to these days.

Once the rotations of watchers were set, the Order moved on to more ordinary business. He was only halfway listening as Dumbledore ran through the usual – where people were, what they’d be doing, who might be able to make contacts or overhear information – it was the same as it always was. Lily’s elbow dug into his side, and he rolled his eyes at her but listened more closely as Dumbledore detailed that Remus would be talking to the werewolves (again) and James and Lily would continue to use their contacts to search for people sympathetic to the Order – or try to find out who was sympathetic to the Death Eaters. Nothing new there. And no one had anything interesting to report. Marlene, James noticed, said nothing, but observed with a sharp and watchful look in her eye. As Dumbledore addressed each person, he met her eyes for a moment and she gave him a small nod before he moved on to the next person.

The interest everyone had felt at the beginning of the meeting had subsided into quiet attention, but it sparked again when Dumbledore turned to Moody.

“Alastor and Frank have been looking into the Bexley case for the Ministry,” Dumbledore announced. “I’ve asked Alastor to fill us in on the latest news we have.”

Moody stalked forward from his corner to stand by Dumbledore. His temper didn’t seem to have been much improved by standing and listening to the Order’s business. If he sat down and relaxed once in a while like the rest of them, James reflected, it would do wonders for his personality.

“The Hero of Bexley is a kid,” Moody announced gruffly. “Not even turned 18 yet. Said his name was Harry Neville, but that’s not his real name. No records, no NEWTs, not even OWLs, claims he has no friends or family, seems to have come out of nowhere to get involved, and seems to want to disappear now that it’s over.”

A murmur swept through the room, and James heard Sirius’ muttered “Bloody hell!” at that news. Sure, they weren’t that much older, but he felt there was a world of difference between being nearly twenty years old and being seventeen. He knew that he and his friends had done a lot of growing up in the short time since they’d graduated Hogwarts, and if he thought about what they were like at that age – thought of being thrown in the middle of a war back then – he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to do half as well as this kid had.

“I’m not done!” Moody barked out, and James jumped a little. “This will take longer than it needs to if you need to gossip like schoolgirls about every little thing, so shut it!”

“Alastor-“ Dumbledore began soothingly, but this only seemed to tick him off more.

“I’ve had a long day, Albus, me and Longbottom both – and I’m here because you want to know what’s going on. So if you want to know, contain yourselves like adults for five damn minutes, and if you don’t, then I’m going home to catch some sleep before I have to go into work again tomorrow and deal with the reporters and the Department and the paperwork and everyone else that wants to waste time on investigating a kid instead of fighting the damn war!”

The room had stilled into a tense silence, now. No one wanted to be the first to move, or speak, or even breath, for fear that all Moody’s ire would be directed on them. Dumbledore’s face had turned disapproving, small frown lines creasing his face, but he said nothing. James knew that look well – he and his friends had been the subjects of that chastising gaze more times than he could count – but on Moody it seemed to have no effect.

To James’ surprise, it wasn’t Moody that spoke next, but Frank. He stood and moved from his spot near them to stand near Moody at the front of the room. James had always thought of Frank as a nice guy – kind, well-spoken, respectful – but now he realized Frank had guts, too, more than James had given him credit for.

Maybe it was the hours spent at the Ministry and in the Auror Department, working under Moody’s eagle-eyed supervision, but Frank didn’t even flinch under his sharp glare.

“Harry Neville was taken to St. Mungo’s following the Bexley incident,” Frank reported calmly, “and Moody interviewed him there. That’s when he first suspected Harry was lying about his last name. Not long after, he’d checked himself out from St. Mungo’s and left behind some very incomplete medical records – a medical history that didn’t explain any of his scars or old injuries and no address.”

James wasn’t sure, but he thought Moody was almost impressed with Frank’s decision to take over the briefing. He’d stopped looking like he wanted to murder someone, at any rate, and there was an approving glint in his eye. Somehow, it still managed to be a terrifying look on him.

Frank glanced at Moody, but the older Auror gestured for him to go ahead. Frank glanced around as if he expected to be shouted down or told to let Moody talk, but everyone’s eyes had fixed on him, waiting patiently for him to speak. Across the room from James, Fabian and Gideon Prewett gave Frank a quick thumbs up – James wondered if perhaps they had known each other at Hogwarts. He’d never asked.

“Right, okay, so-“ Frank began again, and at Moody’s rolled eyes hastily composed himself. “We went out to talk to some local establishments to ask them if they knew him – we didn’t tell them he was the Hero of Bexley, just that we were trying to find a witness in a case. No one had, but most agreed to let us know if he came through. Tom at the Leaky Cauldron tipped us off the next morning to let us know he’d come through for breakfast, and was looking for a job, so that evening, we waited at the pub to see if he would come back.”

“He did, and he came to talk to us, and we had an enlightening conversation. We gave him Semblance Stationary, and he was able to identify Bellatrix Lestrange as one of those involved in the Bexley attack. Nothing we didn’t already suspect, but it’s definitive proof – though it’s not enough to prosecute. Not when the witness is so unreliable. And he is very unreliable. He admitted to giving us a fake last name, though I don’t think he meant to, and eventually admitted as well that he had no address and no documents. No test scores, no proof of identity. He claims to have been homeschooled. No friends, no family, nowhere to stay – he said he was staying at the Leaky Cauldron, but he hadn’t stayed there the night before. We don’t know yet where he went that night. He was interviewing at Flourish and Blotts, so we can keep an eye out for him if he gets the job, and maybe look into recruiting him. But-“ Frank broke off, looking conflicted. He hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure how to say what he was thinking, but whatever it was seemed to pain him.

Moody cut in. “Boy’s been through hell,” he said bluntly. “Whatever happened to him that left him homeless and hiding his identity, he’s jumpy, twitchy, defensive – I’m not sure he’d be a good recruit for the Order.”

“And even if he is,” Frank said, “I’m not sure we should pull him into this war any more than he already has been. He’s a kid, and he looked-“ Frank shook his head. “He looked tired, the way war veterans sometimes look tired, the way we’ve all looked tired from fighting this war, after a fight gone wrong or after we’ve lost someone. And he didn’t look like he knew how to be anything else anymore. With nowhere to go, no one to go to – I think approaching him to join the Order would be taking advantage of a kid in a bad situation. Whatever happened to him, he doesn’t need to go through any more.”

“He’s an asset,” Moody said harshly, and met the angry looks from the room evenly. “You know it, I know it, and the Ministry knows it. Longbottom and I sat in on a meeting with Crouch and Zdenek today, and Crouch is pushing to turn the kid into a propaganda stunt. The Ministry wants to use him to show that people can stand up to the Death Eaters – but what they’ll do is get him killed. If the Death Eaters find out who it was, and that’s probably only a matter of time, the kid’s as good as dead. We can offer him protection that the Ministry won’t – or at least someone to call on if he’s in trouble, since the kid clearly doesn’t have anyone else. And at the least, he’s a damn good fighter. I’m not saying we throw him into the worst of this war, but if it comes down to it and we’re fighting a losing battle, he could make the difference. Taking on seven death eaters, one of them Bellatrix Lestrange – that’s no easy feat.”

“And what has the Ministry decided to do, Alastor?” Dumbledore asked.

“Zdenek pushed back – said the Ministry has no business dragging in a kid for questioning or publicity, and he’s a witness only unless something else happens. But we’ve been asked to keep an eye on him.”

Moody abruptly turned and went back to stand off to the side of the room. Clearly he was done talking. Frank, after an awkward moment standing in front of everyone, made his way back to Alice and sat down. She leaned over to whisper something to him, but James didn’t hear what she said.

Dumbledore moved to address the Order again. “I think it’s clear, then, that we have a decision to make. Harry Neville could be a very great asset to the Order, but I have some reservations. His identity – his ongoing efforts to conceal his identity – that is concerning. And his age as well. I do not think we can discount what Frank has shared with us about what may have happened in his past. However, I think perhaps it may be good for young Harry to have someone to rely on, if he has no one else. And as Alastor said, he is clearly a skilled fighter. Until we know more about him, until we know if he can be trusted or just more about him, I think we should watch him as well before we make any hasty decisions.”

“If he’s standing up against the Death Eaters, he’s made his decision,” Caradoc Dearborn argued.

“He made a decision to step in when something was happening right in front of him,” Alice shot back, “not to fight a war.”

“The Death Eaters aren’t going to give him a choice.”

“What about our security? It doesn’t sound like he’s very trustworthy-“ James didn’t hear where that one came from.

Discussions had broken out all over the room, Order members arguing for or against inviting Harry Neville to join them. Frank, James noticed, had gone to stand by Moody, and were holding themselves off to the side, keeping out of the debate.

“I think he should join!” Sirius exclaimed enthusiastically. “It’d be great to have someone else our age here – and if the reports we heard from Bexley are true, he’s a wicked fighter! I’d rather have him on our side.”

“We don’t know anything about him,” Remus said, brow furrowing in thought. “I know he fought the Death Eaters, but that doesn’t mean he’s sympathetic to the Order. And you have to admit it’s suspicious that he doesn’t have any background at all. What could he be running from that’s so bad that he wouldn’t even give the Aurors his real name? If he’s a criminal or something, we don’t want the Order associated with that – we risk enough accusations of vigilante justice as it is.”

The debates continued to rage around the room, and when Dumbledore called the meeting back to Order, it was only to hear out all sides. They went over the same arguments again and again, and James suddenly found himself standing, though he hadn’t consciously moved to do so. The room was quiet, and all eyes were on him, and he realized they were waiting for him to speak.

“I think we’re all missing the point,” he said. “You’re talking about him like he’s a kid, but he’s our age – or at least not that much younger. I thought that at first too, that seventeen seemed young. But he’s an adult, at least in the eyes of the law, and I think by what you’ve said he isn’t going to act like a kid, not when he’s already fought Death Eaters. If you’re going to treat him like a kid and make decisions for him, you shouldn’t be asking him to get involved in a war. And if you’re going to ask him to be involved, then you should ask him – not decide on his behalf whether he should be protected or involved or left out of this discussion. If he’s going to be a target no matter what – and from what you’ve said I think he is – then I think he deserves to get to decide for himself how that happens, and what he’s going to do about it.”

James sat down again quickly, a bit surprised at himself. Lily slipped her hand into his, twining her fingers between his own. “Well said, James,” she whispered quietly, and gave his hand a quick squeeze. He grinned back at her. His friends, sitting around him, looked a bit taken aback by his sudden decision to speak – usually they didn’t do much at the Order meetings. Usually they weren’t asked to. And James realized that maybe he was tired of being treated like a kid as well – and equally tired of acting like one.

After his sudden passionate speech, the debate had come to a halt. Dumbledore gave James a searching look over his glasses, then smiled. “I think Mr. Potter is right,” he said. “We’ve been too busy thinking about what we have to gain or lose to wonder about Mr. Neville’s decision. If the Ministry is watching him anyway, Alastor, I assume you’ll be able to keep us informed?”

“Longbottom’s the one assigned to it,” Moody grunted out.

“Let us know if something changes, then, Mr. Longbottom,” Dumbledore said, “and I think we ought to take Mr. Potter’s advice. If we decide we can trust him with knowledge of the Order, we will reach out and see what his decision is. If not, there are still ways we can offer our help or protection if his identity as the Hero of Bexley comes out and the Death Eaters begin to target him. In any case, we have other business to discuss tonight.”

At that clear signal to end the discussion, the Order members slowly shifted back to their seats.

“Is there anything else we need to discuss tonight?” Dumbledore asked. No one spoke, and he offered them a smile. “Then I believe we can finish there. I need to return to Hogwarts, but I wish you all a very good night.”

As the meeting came to a close, and the Order began to disperse, Lily went to go find Alice before she headed out.

James, Sirius, Remus and Peter found themselves alone in the middle of the room, and Sirius grinned brightly at his friends.

“Wish we could just prank them ‘til they gave in,” Sirius said wistfully. “Those were the days. Dungbombs in dear old Bella’s drawers and tripping jinxes on the stairs.”

“Sirius!” Remus scolded, but he was fighting back a laugh.

“Guess it’s going to be a while before we all see each other again, isn’t it?” Peter said. He looked disappointed, and James realized that although he’d seen his friends on occasion, the four of them hadn’t been all together outside of Order meetings in a long time – and even then, more often than not one of them was missing.

It felt nostalgic, and Peter seemed to be feeling it too.

James flung an arm over Remus and the other over Sirius, grinning at Peter. They were surprised, but a moment later Sirius dragged Peter in, and the four of them had this one precious moment, together and united. James could do so little for them these days – he couldn’t help Remus through the full moon, wasn’t there to help Sirius deal with the struggles of both his relatives and his family name, hardly saw Peter anymore, now that they were all running missions for Dumbledore. It had been a long year since Hogwarts. They had stayed friends, stayed close, but fighting a war together was a different kind of camaraderie than friendship, and he thought it might be breaking the Marauders – each of them individually, and their bonds with each other. He trusted them with his life, and always would, but they were forgetting how to laugh. But they could have this one moment together; the inseparable Marauders, best of friends.

Then the moment was gone. Alice and Frank had apparated away, and Lily was coming back over to join them. There was a smile on her face too as she looked at the four of them.

“Here’s trouble,” she said teasingly, smile bright. “Why do I have the feeling I should be putting you all in detention?”

James laughed as Sirius gave her a bold wink. Peter snickered under his breath, and Remus somehow managed to look innocent – as he always had. James didn’t know how anyone fell for it anymore.

She laughed, and gave them each a quick hug. “Good to see you all,” she whispered, then stepped back, giving the four of them a chance to say their goodbyes.

James pulled his friends in close in one more tight, desperate embrace. After a long look at his friends that said more than words ever could, James took Lily’s hand, and they apparated away.

Harry’s first few days of work passed in a blur. He was spending most of his time in the back, working with Vee, the Volume Categorization System, though on Thursday, just as he’d been warned, Vee decided not to sort any of the books, though they were still delivered and stacked. Melissa was not warming up to him, still giving him narrow-eyed looks when he came through the door and judgmental glances when he fumbled easy questions or was ignorant of something she considered essential knowledge in the magical world. He had a feeling, however, that these lapses weren’t enough to give him away – she seemed to consider essential knowledge the latest celebrity news from Witch Weekly, how to keep his robes looking nicer than their constantly repaired and rumpled state, and why exactly his hair was such an affront to her sensibilities. She was also absolutely shocked to find that he didn’t own an ever-rotating wardrobe of new and fashionable clothes. He thought it was unusually sensible of her that she seemed to chalk it up to his apparent poverty rather than assuming it was due to a lack of funds from unexpected time travel. He also began to realize that she was really quite intelligent, devouring Arithmancy books at a rate he had never seen from anyone besides Hermione, but she never made any attempt to discuss it with him, or anyone else.

It made him realize that he missed talking with Ginny, spending time with her in Hogwarts, walking out by the lake. During this last year, he had watched her once in a while, on the Marauders’ map, seeing her footsteps in Hogwarts’ halls. But it was summer, and the Map was empty but for the names of a few teachers he knew and many he didn’t. Everyone the Map showed now would be strangers to him, and Ginny was far away in the future. He wondered, sometimes, if they might have made it work. When they had seen each other again at the final battle, he’d still felt the same way, and she had too, but in the month after, they were both too broken from the last year to be ready to start anything yet. They had thought they had all the time in the world to heal, and figure things out.

_We still do_ , he told himself fiercely. _We still will. I’ll find a way back, or they’ll find me._

Melissa was an acquaintance, and their relationship was just acerbic and sarcastic enough that she didn’t remind him of any of the friends he’d left behind, but she wasn’t a friend.

He and Bernie, however, had been getting along well. The man was always delighted to see him when he came in, though they didn’t have many chances to talk. Bernie was usually either busy in the office, or out front greeting many of the regular customers that he knew. He seemed to have a head for names and a warm smile for everyone that walked through his door, but there was a crowd of older witches and wizards that had come in and out to exchange greetings, mention books to each other, and once, notably, set up camp in one of the upper levels, complete with conjured chairs and a tea table, and hold a book club.

It was at the end of his first week that Bernie came out of the back office with a list for Harry and a different job for the day.

“Books are coming in soon for Hogwarts,” he said. “We’ve just got the new list for next year. I’ve placed the order, so they should start arriving today, and we’ll be collecting them for another week. As we get full sets in, start setting some aside and packaging them – we’ll be sending a number of them off by owl order, and it’s always easier if we have all the years put together already. Then all we need to add are the textbooks for the electives. And the three of us – you, Melissa, and I – will need to start setting up the display as well. As soon as we have the full order in, we’ll stay after that day and put everything out. We sort them by year, so if you can get Vee to do that, all the better – if not, best start now. Once we’re stocked, and probably even before then, we’re going to be swarmed with Hogwarts families. It’s best if the ones who don’t want to browse can get in and get out with their books – no one wants to linger these days, and we want to keep the lines moving.”

Harry stayed after closing hours that day to begin sorting the books. He’d quickly realized that while Vee would not take initiative to sort by section, every day but Thursday it could match books to where he’d set them out, so if he left one book in each stack when they were sorted Vee would do the rest. True to Bernie’s word, the first of the school books had begun arriving that day – The Standard Book of Spells Grades 1-7, 1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi, and a few other titles that he recognized from his own Hogwarts years. They were probably the same every year, he realized, and the publishers had them ready to send off as soon as Bernie gave the word.

He wasn’t scheduled to work all weekend, so at the end of the day Friday, he headed back to his campsite. He had run out of wizarding money, though he had scrounged up some muggle money from his pockets – enough to buy some canned food to get him through the next week. He’d had worse weeks at the Dursley’s, but he was going to have to be careful with the food he had left – he wouldn’t be able to buy more until he got paid.

He went back to the library on Saturday and spent the day poring over books like _Numerology and Grammatica_ and _Theory of Numerology._ After a while, he only ended up with a headache, and by the time the day was half through he decided to give Runes a shot and see if it made any more sense to him.

He knew from seeing Melissa on her breaks that she enjoyed Arithmancy, despite her carefully cultivated air of vague indifference, but he didn’t want to ask her for help if he had another option.

_I will if I have to,_ he thought, _to get home to everyone. But I’m not that desperate yet._

Runes, to his great relief, proved easier to start with than the lists of numbers and meanings he’d been perusing. Runic magic didn’t involve any maths or numbers. Instead of obscure mathematical formulae for seemingly arbitrary meanings, runic magic was defined by the ability of the translator or wizard to express the state of the world as it was and the state of the world as they wished it to be. While some of the theoretical materials he’d glanced at made his head spin, the basics seemed simple enough – this rune means that definition.

He'd ended up checking out both the _Rune Dictionary, Spellman’s Syllabary,_ and _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms._ His self-assigned homework was to learn enough definitions to begin trying rudimentary runework - and hopefully get an idea of whether he would be able to learn enough to find his way home. He knew he was a long way off from that, but he thought he might be able to at least get to a point where he could comprehend the references and assumptions of the advanced texts, even if he didn’t understand how to do anything they talked about. It was a place to start.

Ensconced in his transfigured tent, he lost the weekend to studying, taking breaks to wander the Forest of Dean or venture to Diagon Alley when the pages began to swim before his eyes. He’d noticed throughout the last week that when he was in the Alley, he was being watched – most often he spotted Frank Longbottom, who would offer him a nod and continue on his way, but sometimes it was an Auror he didn’t recognize, distinctive in their uniform robes and never quite managing subtlety. And once in a while, he had the feeling of being watched, hairs pricking on the back of his neck, and he couldn’t quite manage to place where it was coming from.

Early Tuesday morning on his first full week of work, he saw one couple giving him glances out of the corner of their eye from a café he didn’t recognize from his own time, and it took everything he had not to stumble when he recognized his own messy black hair. They were talking and laughing, and when they looked away from him he stared at them, drinking in the sight of them spending time together – alive and happy. His mother’s eyes were as much like his as he’d always heard, but it was different to see them now, on her when she was alive, not a likeness in a mirror or a portrait, or the shades summoned by the Resurrection Stone. His father was cheerful and ebullient, hands gesturing wildly as his hair stuck up in tousled waves. They looked so in love that he almost caught his breath at it, exchanging soft smiles and leaning in toward each other almost unconsciously as they talked, as if they were constantly drawn in to each other’s’ orbits. It felt both like something private he was intruding on and something captivating that wouldn’t let him look away: his parents, young and in love and so very alive.

He looked away again before he could be caught staring and moved quickly toward the bookstore. _Keep your head down until you can go home,_ he told himself firmly. _You’re not here for them. You can’t change the past – that’s not how it works. You need to get home to Ron and Hermione and Ginny, to your own time._

But he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted anymore. He didn’t know how long he’d be in the past, but he knew he couldn’t bear to watch them die.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up - a bit of injury description in this one. Nothing too graphic, but Becky rates it PG. If you're squeamish, you might want to skim through those bits.

Somehow, they had wrangled up a display case for the Hogwarts books that didn’t impede the flow of customers throughout the rest of the store – and directed all of the Hogwarts families through the line as quickly as possible. Just past the front door was a spinning shelf for each year’s books, lined up in the window. It didn’t take much space away from the rest of the store, and most importantly, it meant families could be in and out in as little time as possible, unless they actually intended to browse – once the other customers got past the Hogwarts display, they’d be safe from rampaging children and harassed parents.

Harry was actually a little relieved; Melissa had been juggling so much between the display and the customers that she hadn’t even had time to look exasperated by Harry’s presence; this was the first day she may have even admitted that it was nice to have help, if she wasn’t too busy to speak to him at all.

Harry had thought perhaps Bernie had been overselling how crazy the bookstore would get once the lists came out, but he realized that he had very little experience to judge by – other than the assumption that the insanity that accompanied Gilderoy Lockhart’s book signing would not be present. He realized that he had come on comparatively quiet days, after the initial rush had died down. From the moment the letters were out, the store had been besieged with harried customers insistent on receiving their books at the soonest possible moment, and Melissa’s insistence that they weren’t all in stock yet fell on deaf or unhappy ears.

When the stock did come in, the first few days were madness. Families were coming in all at one time, parents herding their children toward the desk while juggling stacks of books, question after question coming in about which book was the right one and what their child needed for class, despite both the displays organized by year and subject and the list they’d been sent from Hogwarts. Harry worked out front for the first time, working the rest of the store and helping customers who weren’t getting their schoolbooks while Melissa expertly navigated the tide of frantic shoppers, harried mothers, and boisterous children. He did not envy her the job.

The crowds were made worse by the tension that lay over all of them; families that had been staying well away from Diagon Alley now found they had no choice but to come out in public, and if they were getting wands or robes, they had to bring their children as well. Every delay, every question, every line was cause for impatience born of fear, and tempers were running high. Harry had witnessed no less than three screaming matches in the store by Wednesday, and they’d only been selling Hogwarts books for two days.

In all the chaos, it did help him with one thing; he had been stretching his food and unable to wash his two work robes other than his rudimentary household charms, but if he looked strained or tired, no one thought it exceptional; it just meant he fit in. He could tell that it was starting to wear on him - he was just a little more tired, just a little slower to react - but he thought he was doing well at hiding his situation from everyone else.

Perhaps the most trying part of working in the front of the bookstore, however, had been overhearing the conversations. The “Hero of Bexley,” as he was being called, was still in the news, and it seemed by staying anonymous he had unintentionally acquired an air of mystery – and everyone wanted to speculate.

“I bet it’s an undercover Auror,” one woman told her friend knowingly as they stood together in line. “On a secret mission. That’s why they can’t tell us anything.”

“He’s so mysterious,” a couple of Hogwarts-aged girls giggled together as they whispered near the romance book section. “And he’s probably young and handsome, too.”

“Should’ve left it to the Aurors,” one older man grumbled to his book club. “What’s wrong with these people, running around as vigilantes, putting hare-brained ideas in peoples’ heads. Another member of the club had been quickly to dispute that, his face lined and weary. “Maybe the safest thing to do is to keep your head down,” he had argued, “but that doesn’t make it the right thing to do. I don’t want to encourage people to go out looking for fights and getting in over their heads, but if something happens in front of you, you can’t just pretend it isn’t happening. That’s how we got here in the first place – too many people pretending nothing was wrong because it didn’t affect them.”

On Wednesday, he woke yelling and thrashing in his makeshift tent. He was panting and sweating like he’d just run a marathon, and his hand leapt to his wand, pulling it out and brandishing it at the night. His eyes frantically searched the darkness for the shadowy figures his mind insisted were there, his body tensed at every sound, convinced that Hogwarts was crumbling around him. In his mind, all he could see was faces: Dobby, Dennis Creevey, Lupin and Tonks, but they were joined by Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, faces pale in death and mouths moving in silent accusation. He had left them, he hadn’t been there, and they were dead. And Voldemort was coming for him.

He sat there for what felt like hours, body shaking, eyes burning, hand clenched around his wand and pointing it relentlessly out into the night. It could have been minutes or seconds, by the time he came back to himself. His heart slowed, his shaking stopped, and he let his wand fall. He dropped his head to his knees and forced himself to breathe.

It was the early hours of the morning, and the stars were not yet fading in the first light of dawn. Nevertheless, he rose, unwilling to try and go back to sleep.

Sitting up, back propped against a tree, he filled a mug with a murmured “aguamenti” and heated it with a quick charm Hermione had been fond of this last year. Staring off into the dark night, he tried to remember that the war was over. He wasn’t on the run, and no one was hunting him down. It was over. The war was over.

Saying the same thing again and again to himself didn’t help convince him. The war was over in his time, but in 1979, it was just starting.

Eventually he fell into a half-doze, body exhausted but mind unable to sleep. He was jolted out of his lethargy by every snapping twig or creaking tree, before sinking back into his semiconscious state. When the sun finally began to rise, he felt wrung out, physically and mentally. He uncurled from where he was laying beneath the tree and sat up, one arm pushing against the ground, and was met by a sharp pain in his side.

He looked down and swore. His robes were sticking to his side, and blood had pooled through and crusted on, staining his robes. He went to pull them off, and they pulled, glued to his side by the reopened wound. He grit his teeth, knowing what he was about to do was a bad idea, then yanked the robe away from his side. The scab came off with it.

Harry twisted, clenching his jaw against the pain, and tried to see the wound properly. He hadn’t been changing the bandages twice a day, but he had cleaned the bandages every night as best he could, and the black lines had been shrinking. Now, they had grown again, spreading across his chest and spiraling toward his back as well. The wound was raw and bleeding freely. He swore again.

 _What did the healer say?_ He thought desperately. _Dittany, if it opens. I don’t have dittany, but I can clean it out with water and put pressure on until the bleeding stops._ He knew that might not be enough, but he didn’t want to go back to St. Mungo’s. He didn’t think he could get in without real patient information this time, and he couldn’t afford whatever they might charge. Not for the first time, he wished he knew more about how the wizarding world worked. He had only ever been to the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, and his last visit to St. Mungo’s hadn’t been enlightening.

Tossing his robes to the side, he grabbed for his crumpled t-shirt that he’d shoved into his bag and soaked it in water from his wand, then pressed it down hard. He was sure this wasn’t the right way to deal with the injury, but it would get him through the day at work. He could figure something out later tonight, if he had to.

Grimacing against the pain, he held it on as long as he could stand to, then tentatively pulled it away. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but it was still seeping out. A quick charm on the shirt got the worst of it out, and then he carefully folded it and placed it over the wound. He grabbed his old robes and ripped off a strip of fabric, then wrapped it over the padded bandage he’d made, tying it on. He stood and moved, and the bandage stayed in place. He threw on his nicer robes over the top of it, then twisted to look. The bandage hardly showed, and nothing was bleeding through the fabric. Satisfied that he could get through the day at work without any awkward questions, he apparated to Diagon Alley.

He arrived at the apparition point and headed down the street toward the bookstore, seeing a few of the faces he’d begun to recognize that came in at the same time every day. One of the girls that worked at Madam Malkin’s, the apothecary and his apprentice, and others that he didn’t recognize from the shops he’d looked into. Frank Longbottom was often there as well, checking in on the Alley before he presumably went into the Ministry for work, and sometimes Harry would recognize the furtive behavior and sneaking glances that he suspected meant were Order members keeping an eye on him.

Today, his smile at Frank came out as more of a grimace, and the man’s face creased with concern before he stood to make his way over to Harry. Harry instantly regretted his greeting and walked a little more quickly down the sidewalk, but Frank caught up to him.

“Harry!” Frank greeted him, “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Harry said, “but I have to get to work.” He felt his shoulders rise defensively, and he tried to force them back down. He had never meant to let slip as much as he did last time they talked, and as awful as he felt now, he thought there might be even chances for letting slip even more or shouting at the man to leave him alone.

Frank didn’t take the hint.

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking at Harry steadily as Harry refused to meet his eyes. Harry said nothing, but kept walking toward the bookstore.

“I know you said you don’t need help,” Frank said, and Harry only listened because there was no pity in his gaze. Concern, yes, but not pity, and it was the pity that he couldn’t stand. “But if you want it, if you need somewhere to stay, even just for a little while,” he extended a hand to Harry, proffering a small slip of paper with an address scrawled down on it. Harry was ready to refuse, until he met Frank’s eyes.

 _Neville has his father’s eyes,_ Harry thought dazedly, looking into Frank’s kind eyes that shone with nothing but concern. It was that which compelled him to reach out and take the scrap of paper from his hands, overcome with memories of his friend’s quiet loyalty and unable to refuse it from this man who looked so like him. Emotions clogged up his throat, a lump lodging there and rendering him unable to speak. He said nothing, but Frank seemed to understand.

“I’ll let you get to work,” he said with a friendly smile, and far more compassion in his eyes than Harry deserved. Unable to meet his eyes any longer, Harry muttered his thanks and hurried toward the bookstore, leaving Frank standing in the Alley alone.

The morning was agonizing. Every time he stretched to shelve a book or lifted a stack, the wound in his side pulled angrily, and he had to fight back a pained grunt more than once. Melissa was watching him more than usual, her face alternating between aloof disinterest, narrow-eyed looks of suspicion, and the occasionally creased, worried brow. If she caught him looking back, though, her suspicious looks got deeper – and the concern was quickly wiped off her face, like she didn’t want him to know she cared in the slightest what happened to him.

He knew he was only making it worse by his reactions. He could feel it when she was watching him, and he had to fight not to keep a hand on his wand or look constantly over his shoulder. When Bernie came in to ask him to check on their stock of _Standard Book of Spells_ , he jumped when he heard his name, and his hand shot to his side.

It was a busy morning; they had finally gotten in the last of the Hogwarts textbooks for the seventh-year electives, and the next two weeks would be the busiest days they’d seen yet, according to Melissa and Bernie.

“Neville, watch the register?” Melissa called over at one point, when the rush finally died down a little. Parents and children were heading for the Leaky Cauldron, for home, or for the cafes and restaurants down the road.

“Sure,” he said, and stepped up. Customers still came in, but it seemed the lunch break had given them all a moment to breathe. Even Bernie, usually perpetually cheerful and easy-going, looked a little rushed, though no less happy to be in his bookstore.

Thankfully, the only customers that came up to check out while he was at the register were two of the regulars, and they were both remarkably patient as he fumbled with the cash drawer and double checked the prices. An elderly woman brought up a romance novel – she was in for a new one every week – and when he finished checking her out, she leaned over and pinched his cheek, accompanied by a wave of cloying perfume.

“Such a helpful young man,” she said, nodding to herself. “It’s so good to see young people appreciating books.”

“Er – ” Harry said.

She patted his shoulder. “You just keep on working hard,” she told him.

“Right,” he said awkwardly, hoping she’d back up a bit. “Yeah, er, I will.”

“Well then. I’ll see you next time,” she said.

At that moment, Melissa came back from her quick bathroom break. For once, she wasn’t disdainful when she spoke to him. She seemed to have let her guard down a little in the face of the lady sailing her way out the door.

“You had Old Mrs. Macinroy? Thank Merlin,” she muttered under her breath. “You’d think the cheek-pinching would get old after a while.”

Harry stifled a grin as he headed back around the desk to head to the back. The door chimed as another family came through. The parents were shepherding five children, three Hogwarts-age and two younger ones, who took off for the kids’ books the second they were inside, their mother shouting after them to walk.

Just as Harry rounded the desk, one of them barreled right into his injured side, bouncing off and shouting an apology before he continued on his way. Harry gasped, pressing a hand to his side. Forcing a smile and waving off the mother’s apologies, he stumbled back towards the bathroom, swearing quietly once he was alone when he saw that the wound had reopened, and blood was beginning to seep through the bandages to stain his only wearable set of robes. He began working the cloth off so he could rebandage it.

There was a knock on the door. “Harry?” Bernie called in. The man sounded worried.

“Fine,” Harry said, but bit off the end of the word in a groan as the cloth bandages pulled on the gash and ripped off some of the scabs. Looking at his side, now that most of the bandage was off, he could see the black streaks standing out against his skin, matching the red, angry lines of infection.

The last piece of bandage was sunk into the wound where his side had puffed up around it, and he knew he’d have to pull it off. He took a breath, then yanked it out. He couldn’t hold back a shout, and he was hit with a wave of dizziness. As though from a distance, he heard Bernie’s voice.

“Melissa, close the shop for lunchtime,” he said, then, “Harry, I’m opening the door.”

Harry sat up to protest this but was forced to sink back down to the floor when the motion sent a shooting pain up his side. The door opened a crack, then it opened all the way. Harry saw Melissa’s face pale where she was standing behind Bernie in the doorway when she caught a glimpse of his side. He was suddenly very glad he’d worn jeans under his robes.

“Melissa, get a glass of water,” he said, and Harry heard her footsteps quickly retreating toward the back office.

“I can bandage this up for you, but it needs to be looked at,” Bernie said. “What were you thinking, coming into work today? You should be in bed – or in St. Mungo’s!”

“I’m fine,” Harry insisted, but his protest sounded weak even to himself.

Melissa came back with a glass of water in her left hand and handed it to Harry. Her right hand held her wand at her side.

“We should call the Aurors,” she said tightly, her mouth in a line as she looked at Harry. “Bernie, that’s dark magic. You can see it. We should call them.”

“Being hurt by dark magic doesn’t make someone a dark wizard, Melissa,” Bernie said soothingly.

“Maybe not,” she said, fingers clenching around her wand, “but hiding it? Coming in without a resume, without references – no one knows him, Bernie. No one! And you can’t say he wasn’t suspicious before this, and now we find out he’s been hiding injuries from dark magic? He got stopped by an Auror this morning on his way in – I saw it across the street! There’s something going on there. I’m not saying he’s a dark wizard, Bernie, but something is going on.”

“I’ve always given people the benefit of the doubt,” Bernie told her, voice certain and a little chiding, “as you well know.”

“Yes, and I appreciate it. But Bernie – one of these days you’re going to be wrong.” Melissa seemed to have worn out her protests with that, and she fixed a fierce look on Harry and waited.

“Why don’t you go and get Harry’s file with his emergency contacts?” Bernie said, and Melissa blew out a breath, all the fight draining out of her.

“Yeah, alright,” she said. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

When she was gone, Bernie turned a look on Harry. “She has her own good reasons to be careful,” he said. “Don’t hold this against her.”

Harry stared. “She’s not wrong, though,” he said. “I mean, you don’t know anything about me – and I know how suspicious all this is.”

Bernie laid his wand gently against Harry’s side. “Ferula,” he said, and bandages came out, wrapping up the wound.

“Well, are you a dark wizard?” he asked conversationally.

“No!”

“Well that’s settled then.” Bernie said.

“You’re just going to… believe me?” Harry asked incredulously.

Melissa had come in on the tail end of their conversation, holding a slim folder. At Harry’s words she rolled her eyes. “Alright, even I can admit that you probably wouldn’t protest this much if you really were a dark wizard. But that doesn’t mean you’re not involved in some kind of trouble. I don’t trust you.” Harry heard the implied _yet_ at the end of the sentence, and thought maybe he hadn’t ruined things for himself at Flourish and Blotts after all.

“Fair enough,” he said.

Bernie flipped open the folder.

“You do understand that I have to make a call to your emergency contacts, and I ought to send you to St. Mungo’s as well?” Bernie asked, and Harry immediately protested.

“No! No, I’m fine, you don’t have to do that – I’ll take a day off if you want me to – I won’t come in until I get this taken care of. I don’t need to go to St Mungo’s!”

Melissa’s skeptical glance said this was one more mark against him.

Bernie seemed to catch on to the real reason. “St. Mungo’s won’t charge more than you can afford,” he said. “They’re not going to turn you away if you can’t pay.”

Harry was still reluctant to admit that more than he could afford was anything at all. He was getting paid at the end of this week, and he would figure things out then.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’d listed Aurors Alastor Moody and Frank Longbottom as your primary and secondary emergency contacts, rather than any kind of family” Bernie said gently.

Harry avoided eye contact. He hadn’t thought anyone would actually read his employment forms.

“Does Auror Moody know he’s your emergency contact?” Bernie pressed, and Harry flushed red.

“I don’t know anyone else,” he muttered. “And it’s not like he wouldn’t show up to ask questions anyway if something happened.”

“If you won’t go to St. Mungo’s, I do need to notify them,” Bernie told him. “I can’t in good conscience let you just leave like this.”

“Well,” Melissa said, some of the hostility gone. “I guess we’re calling the Aurors after all. I’ll go Floo the Auror Office and tell Auror Moody,” she said.

She disappeared around the corner again.

“Let’s get you to the office while we wait,” Bernie said. “You’ll be more comfortable there.” He held out a hand to grab Harry’s arm, but this was one indignity too many.

“I can walk,” Harry said, and pushed himself up, ignoring the protest from his side as it was forced to bend. He followed Bernie over to the small back office where Melissa had put her head through the fireplace and let himself sink down into a chair. Resigned to both the fussing and the questions, he let his eyes close and his head tip back.

“Damnit, kid, can’t you stay out of trouble for one week,” Moody growled, scowling as he came through the fireplace.

Harry’s wand was up and pointed at him in half a second, but when he recognized Moody, he let his arm sink back down.

Rather than be alarmed at this, Moody just nodded approvingly, moving straight to the questions.

“Thought you were all fixed up,” he said, looking pointedly at Harry’s side. “Unless you got cursed all over again.”

“Dunno,” Harry said.

Moody stomped over, Vanishing the bandages over Bernie’s protests. “Looks like it got infected – and you haven’t used dittany. Have you at least been changing the bandages?”

“As much as I could,” Harry said, annoyed.

“But not twice a day?” Moody said, and Harry said nothing. “Damn it boy, it won’t fix itself. Dittany, and change your bandages.”

“I don’t have any dittany,” Harry said hotly. “I did the best I could with it!”

Melissa watched them bicker, head bouncing between them like it was a tennis match. At least, Harry thought wryly, this would probably convince her that he wasn’t on some dark wizard watch list. Moody recast the bandages.

“Drink this,” he said, shoving a vial in Harry’s face.

Harry eyed it warily. “What is it?”

“What? You don’t trust me?” Moody asked.

“Constant vigilance,” Harry shot back sarcastically. Alarmingly, this made Moody grin.

“Good lad,” he said approvingly. “It’s a Blood Replenishing Potion. You need it. Now drink.”

Harry gave it one more suspicious look, then took the vial and tipped it back, downing it.

“Idiot,” Moody said gruffly. “Where are you staying? I’ll drop you home before I go back in – and drop off some dittany on the way.”

Harry’s silence gave away more than he meant it to.

“I thought you were staying at the Leaky Cauldron,” Moody said pointedly.

“I was,” Harry said, face set in a glower, “when you asked me.”

Moody rolled his eyes. “And is this whole runaround for a reason, or are you going to tell me where you’re staying now?”

Harry shrugged, gaze skipping away to rest on the wall.

“Dammit, Longbottom was right, wasn’t he?” Moody muttered to himself. “Kid. Where?”

“I’m camping out in the woods, okay?” Harry said defiantly, eyes meeting Moody’s and daring him to make something of it. He didn’t look over at Bernie or Melissa.

Moody looked exasperated. “So you’re living in the woods, without any dittany for your curse wound from dark magic, going in to work every day, without anyone that you’ll even tell your real name, let alone any friends or family, and refusing to go to St. Mungo’s? At what point were you planning to ask for help? When you were dead?”

Something of Harry’s surprise must have shown on his face because Moody called him an idiot again. “You did a good thing in Bexley, kid – I don’t care what your real name is, if you’re fighting Death Eaters, that’s good enough for me. But you can’t keep going on like this.”

“Bexley?” Melissa broke in. Harry had almost forgotten she and Bernie were there. Bernie didn’t seem to have been surprised by the news that he was in Bexley, but in that moment he looked his age, sorrow and compassion in his eyes as he looked at Harry. Harry had to look away. Melissa was staring at him. “The Hero of Bexley? You’re the Hero of Bexley?”

Harry’s shoulders rose defensively. “Er-“ he said. “I guess?”

“You guess.” Her voice was flat. “And you just let me go off at you earlier, and you’re living in the woods, and you look sketchy as hell because you’re broke, and – oh Merlin, the Hero of Bexley is an idiot,” she concluded.

“Hey!” Harry protested. He would take that from Moody, but he didn’t have to hear it from her, too.

“You are such an idiot,” she told him. “Why didn’t you say something? Bernie would have helped you out – I wouldn’t have been worried you were into some kind of shady business – “ she sputtered a little, looking embarrassed and indignant at the same time.

Moody ignored her. “Right, here’s what’s going to happen,” he started.

At that moment, something outside exploded, and after a stunned silence, the street broke out into screams.

“Stay here,” Moody ordered as he spun and raced out the door, but Harry was already up and running, ignoring the pain in his side, wand out and right on Moody’s heels.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks ever so much to the amazing and talented Becky, who is not only my incredible beta reader and sometimes editor but also my biggest cheerleader! This fic wouldn’t be the same without her!

Moody heard Harry’s footsteps behind him as he ran for the Alley’s streets but couldn’t stop to do more than swear viciously at the utter stupidity of running into a fight wounded. His bandages were a target just begging to be shot at, and Moody he didn’t have time to fight and look out for the kid, too. Usually he’d say that Harry Neville could likely hold his own, but right now, he didn’t trust him to stay upright on his own two feet. Behind him, Harry stumbled, putting a hand out to brace himself against the wall before he found his balance. Moody sprinted on, ignoring him. He didn’t have time to argue him down, and he couldn’t afford to give it another thought.

He skidded past the shelves and skidded to a halt at the bookstore doors, taking a second to glance out the window and evaluate the situation.

Death Eaters had apparated into the Alley; he saw four cloaked figures just outside the bookstore, their bone white masks and hooded cloaks enough to identify them. The sounds of screams and fighting echoed up and down the entire street.

He slammed through the bookshop’s doors, raising his wand in the same swift movement. A Patronus leapt from his wand, and then another, one racing for the Ministry to alert the Aurors and the second heading for the Order.

Even as he let off the Patronus, he was already spinning, taking in the Alley. Across from Flourish and Blotts, the shopfront had crumbled, and the canopy lay strewn across the cobblestones, trapping a couple beneath it. Four Death Eaters stood in the middle of the street, laughing and throwing curses wildly. A stray curse had blasted up rocks and debris, and behind it families huddled together, hiding their children’s faces and clutching them tight. A few of the witches and wizards had put up shield charms, but they flickered under a steady barrage of spells; the Death Eaters were only playing with them.

One of them laughed as he cast a spell, not at the shields, but at the rubble. A child screamed in pain as the makeshift barrier blasted backwards, sending shards of debris into those huddled behind it. Their shelter gone, the bystanders scattered, only to be caught by the fire that blossomed from another Death Eater’s wand, ringing one side of the alley.

Only a few of the bystanders seemed to have retained their senses, but the panicked attempts at Apparition didn’t work. He felt the familiar laser focus of battle overtake him, and the rest of the world faded away. All that remained was a sense of grim purpose. There was no way to tell how far the apparition wards extended, which meant backup might not be coming for a long time.

They weren’t outnumbered, of course, Moody thought, if only the people screaming and running through the Alleys would turn and fight.

It only took a second for him to decide on his first target. He needed to buy time for the civilians to get away. He had to take out the ones targeting the families. He shot off a blasting curse at the four Death Eaters that were clustered together. A streak of yellow light spiraled through the air, setting off a concussive blast that threw the Death Eaters back and away, buying the civilians time to scramble to a safer distance.

Harry came up behind him, winded from the race through the bookstore, face set as he tried to keep the effort from showing on his face. His lips were pressed tight together against the pain he must be feeling, but his wand was steady.

“Get them inside,” Moody ordered, even as he sprinted forward to press his advantage. If he couldn’t keep the kid out of this, at least Harry could help without engaging the Death Eaters head-on.

He thought perhaps one or two of them looked a little nervous when they realized it was him, and he let a predatory grin cross his face. They glanced to their companions, reassuring themselves that they outnumbered him.

Rapidly closing the distance, he shot a vicious Stunner from his wand, so strong that it threw the Death Eater backwards into the rubble he’d been blasting apart moments before. He felt a surge of satisfaction. The next Stunner to leave his wand was blocked, though just barely, by one of the Death Eaters still on the ground. As he followed up, sending a barrage of curses slamming into the shield until it wavered, the other two found their feet. Rather than target him, one of them moved to aim around him at Harry and the civilians, and Moody had to abandon his assault on the shield to block him.

_The civilians are the weak point,_ he thought. _They know I have to defend them, too._ He made a split-second decision and sent up a wall of stone, blocking off the whole street and trapping Harry and the civilians on one side, and himself with the Death Eaters on the other. He barreled forward down the road, firing spells over his shoulder as he went and running away from the wall to draw the Death Eaters away. They could break through quickly, he knew, but he was counting on the fact that they couldn’t afford to leave him at their back.

He caught one off guard with a jinx that he cast on the cobblestones rather than on his enemy, and the stones opened under her feet before closing around her sides and leaving all but her head encased in solid rock. Blocking only worked if you were shielding the right target, he thought with satisfaction. Then he was on the defensive again, as the other two fought side by side, sending spells in tandem. A curse whipped past him, slicing open his shoulder as it screamed through the air. If he hadn’t dodged, he would have been torn apart. But he couldn’t dodge everything. He ducked a Killing Curse and was forced to move right into a Bone-Breaking Hex that shattered his left elbow. He swore aloud but kept moving. At least it wasn’t his wand arm.

He needed control of the battleground. They weren’t great duelers; their only advantage was that they were covering each other. As he dodged another Unforgivable, he sent a silent _flagrante_ into the ground between them, making it burn where it touched. The next time they stepped together to shield from his attacks, one shield suddenly dropped as the victim flinched away, shoes melting away and feet burning with the pain. His spell slammed home, and then he was only facing one enemy.

As he dueled the last one, sending a volley of spells that caused the shield charm to flicker and die away, a spell from behind sent fire roaring at Moody’s back. The Death Eaters farther down the Alley had come running at the sounds of the fight, and they’d realized he was the biggest threat. He resigned himself to the burns, unable to shield and duel the enemy in front of him at the same time. Expecting him to turn, the Death Eater he was facing was caught by his last few spells, his wand tracing a sweeping arc in the air as he solidified the air around his enemy. It was a tricky spell, but it was trickier to undo; he wasn’t getting out of that anytime soon. He braced himself as he finished casting, but the searing heat he’d expected didn’t come. A shield sprang up, and he saw Harry Neville holding the fire back with a shield charm. Behind him, a hole was blasted through the wall, and the civilians were nowhere in sight. The _protego_ shouldn’t have been as effective as it was, and the kid’s jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed in concentration; he was succeeding partly through sheer stubbornness.

A twist of Moody’s wand, and water sprayed out, putting out the fire and sending up enormous gusts of steam. With the street now obscured from sight and the Death Eaters no more than shadowy figures behind the fog, Moody gave Harry a shove toward the alley on their left while he ducked off to the right. “Get cover,” he ordered tersely.

Harry nodded and darted behind a corner of the wall. Moody placed himself in the small alley across from him, in the space between Flourish and Blotts and Quality Quidditch. He was relieved when Harry met his eyes, waiting; Moody knew he could fight, but that didn’t mean he could trust him at his back until he knew the other wizard could keep his head and work as a team. But they were both ready and waiting when one of the shadowed figures cast a wind that blasted the steam up into the sky.

The moment of disorientation when the Death Eaters realized their targets had moved gave them the edge they needed. Moody’s curse caught one, and Harry, across from him, stunned another. Moody threw himself forward, out of the alley and toward the street. Once they realized where Harry and Moody were, staying separated put them at a disadvantage. He kept moving and kept low, trying to get to Harry so they could cover each other’s flanks.

“Aurors!” one of the Death Eaters he was fighting bellowed back up the street. Moody swore viciously.

“Get over here!” he bellowed at Harry, who ducked a Killing Curse and sent his own spell flying back as he tried to get back over to Moody. A flash of light hit between them, sending sparks flying from the cobblestones where it fizzled into a flash of blue light, and Harry was forced to back up again. Moody shot off three spells in quick succession, and the wizard tried to dodge two, and was caught by the last. It was two on two now, but if someone had heard them, more were coming.

Spells shot from the end of his wand as he moved between the return fire, deflecting and countering some, keeping them from flying behind him. He twisted to the side to dodge an Unforgivable. His mouth curled in distaste, but his focus never wavered. Harry, beside him, dodged more and deflected less, but he was holding his own. That quick glance was enough to satisfy Moody that he was still steady on his feet, so he turned his attention away from the kid to put all his energy into his own fight.

Moody’s Bone Breaking spell slammed into his opponent’s arm, shattering it. The man screamed in pain, and his wand fell from nerveless fingers, and Harry got a stunner through. It was only a moment’s work for Moody to fire off one more spell, this time a reducto, shattering his wand into pieces.

“Stunners and Disarming spells won’t keep them down if their friends show up,” Moody said harshly, meeting Harry’s eyes until he got a nod of understanding.

“Can you still fight?” Moody asked, then preempted his response. “And don’t try and sound tougher than you are. He leveled a stare at Harry until the boy shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Harry’s mouth closed and his eyes dropped away, and Moody knew his guess had been right; the kid had been about to insist he was fine until it was all over. He watched as the kid quietly took stock, hand moving to his side to press lightly on his bandages. After a moment’s thought, Harry nodded.

“I’m alright,” he said. “As long as no one hits my side, I’ll be fine.”

“Right then,” Moody said, eyes fixed on the point where the street curved and his sightlines ended. “Let’s go. Watch my back.”

They moved down the street methodically, working as a team. Deserted except for the injured, it was eerily empty. The hushed silence that had fallen in the Alley, broken only by the sound of whimpers and calls for help, was a far cry from the usual bustle and chatter. Faces pressed against windows as they passed, or moved quickly away – the scared faces of those who had taken shelter in the shops never visible for more than a moment before they ducked out of sight.

Moody dueled everyone that came their way, blasting off spells and taking out as many Death Eaters as he could. Harry stood at his side. While Moody focused on the fight, Harry sent any civilians still caught out in the street behind their two person perimeter and sent them running for the dubious safety of Flourish and Blotts – those that could run. For the bodies already laying in the street, injured or dead, there was little they could do.

They hadn’t yet found the end of the Apparition Wards, and if their reinforcements weren’t here yet, either they were still too far out or they were trying to take them down. A couple shops had opened their doors to shoppers, giving them a place to hide, but most had barricaded themselves in with whoever was there at the time, and they weren’t opening the doors for the shoppers Harry was saving. _Cowards_ , Moody thought disgustedly. _At least they could get the families out of the fighting_.

They stopped for a second to breathe after they had gotten halfway down the main street. They could hear fighting up ahead, outside Gringotts.

“Still with me, kid?” Moody asked. Harry nodded, eyes fixed ahead, and Moody smiled in grim satisfaction. He would never have expected his backup to be a seventeen-year-old, but it wasn’t too unlike working with an Auror. He would be concerned about that later; for now, he was grateful that Harry had experience enough.

Sounds of fighting reached their ears, and they moved carefully forward again. When they rounded the corner to the plaza in front of Gringotts, they found the Aurors and the Order had gotten through – and they were engaged in fighting what looked to be the main force of the attack on the Alley. Small knots of fighting had formed, allies fighting back to back, paired up against the enemy. He spotted Frank and Alice fighting side by side, Frank taking the brunt of the spellwork while Alice manipulated the stones and debris, shaping the battlefield. He felt a fierce rush of pride; she was using his lessons well. James Potter and Sirius Black were there as well, fighting recklessly, caution to the wind, though they were pushing their opponents back. That sloppiness would get them killed if they were fighting anyone more skilled. Madam Zdenek was there, taking on three Death Eaters at once, one of them casting far stronger spells than most. Her wand whipped through the air, casting faster than she could have said the spells aloud. There were bodies on the ground; Benjy Fenwick lay crumpled near the steps to the bank, and several Death Eaters were insensate, though whether unconscious or dead, he couldn’t tell. Caradoc Dearborn had his back to Auror Scrimgeour, but they were losing; they were each fighting off a pair of Death Eaters, and they were surrounded. Moody threw himself into the fight, evening the odds. Two of the Death Eaters abandoned their attack on Dearborn and Scrimgeour to face him.

It was a blur of motion, bodies moving, spells flying through the air. Even the Death Eaters had limited themselves to less harmful spells for the most part, conscious that they could hit their own allies. Though some of them, Moody noted, didn’t seem to care. He grimaced as Scrimgeour got blasted into a wall and James Potter got hit with a nasty-looking curse but couldn’t stop to help – not without leaving himself open. He saw the hood of one of the Death Eaters fly back and felt a surge of satisfaction when he recognized Bellatrix Lestrange. Testimony from Harry was irrelevant now; his witness account would be enough. She stared at him, face twisted in fury and spit flying as she hissed out her spells. Moody was already facing two enemies, and Black was no slouch at casting. He wasn’t sure he would hold up to all three at once. But her gaze moved past him, then she seemed to freeze, recognition in her face. It twisted in furious anger.

“You!” Her voice was almost a scream, and everyone careless enough to stop and look got taken down, Death Eaters and allies alike, but Moody couldn’t spare the attention.

Harry heard the scream, and saw Bellatrix Lestrange emerge from the fray, eyes fixed unwaveringly on him. There was a mad fury in them. Clearly, she recognized him from the Bexley attack. Even as she ran towards him, she was already casting, Crucios flying from the tip of her wand. He threw himself backwards, out of the way.

His side was aching, the wound throbbing dully, and he was exhausted from fighting his way down the alley by Moody’s side. Still, seeing Mad-Eye Moody in action in his prime had been incredible.

She had him on the defensive, pushing him backwards and away from the fight. He was backed up nearly to the wall of Madam Malkin’s Robes, and the front display had been blasted apart and scattered on the ground. He barely managed to avoid getting tangled in a stray robe.

He needed to buy a moment to turn the momentum and be able to send some spells back. He glanced around frantically for something he could use. Moody had used the terrain in all the previous fights, just as Dumbledore had years ago in the Department of Mysteries. That could give him an advantage now.

An _engorgio_ and a banishing charm on the robe that had nearly tripped him was enough to blind Bellatrix for a moment. She screamed, venting her rage, and incinerated it, but he’d accomplished what he needed to. The barrage of curses had ceased in the time it took her to deal with the distraction, and now he could send spells of his own.

Stunners, Body-Bind Curses, Tripping Jinxes – none of his spells would do much damage, but as long as he fired fast enough, she would be occupied with blocking them, because if they did get through, he’d have a chance to hit her with something worse. Moody’s words about their enemies just getting back up again the moment they were hit with an _enervate_ had sunk in, but he didn’t know if he could bring himself to curse an enemy that was already down.

He wasn’t sure he’d get the chance to find out. His assault hadn’t lasted long before she turned the tables once more, doing some kind of counterspell that sent all his jinxes flying back at him. She followed them up with something far darker. The spell seemed to split the air as it flew, a sickly black light from the end of her wand. It streaked past him, just barely missing his head, and he was forced to duck for cover. The spell impacted the wall of the shop, and the wall collapsed inward, the spell pulling in the brick inexorably until it exploded, sending it all flying back out. Harry cast a shield, but it didn’t block them all, and a few of them slammed into him, sending him stumbling backwards. One hit his side, and he gasped and doubled over, pressing his arm into the bandages to try and stem the bleeding. He kept it there as he straightened, wand arm coming up.

He got up another shield just in time to keep Bellatrix’s next spell from taking him in the chest, but he was running out of options. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out.

Moody caught only glimpses of the duel. From what he saw, Harry was better than he would have expected, but he was still outmatched. He could see the moment Harry was forced back to the wall, trying desperately to stay ahead of Lestrange’s wand, but Moody was hardpressed, now fighting three of the remaining Death Eaters. They had him surrounded, and he was spinning in place, deflecting every spell as soon as it saw it on its way. He’d have to trust Harry to hold his own a little longer.

He thought the battle might be turning, though. The anti-apparition wards had come down, and Death Eaters were starting to Apparate away. It was one of their main tactics; they would hit somewhere, do as much damage as possible, and flee the scene. And while Moody didn’t like to resort to killing if he didn’t have to, preferring them alive to face trial and give up information, they were all too good at getting their injured away. And the next time they attacked, they’d be facing the same people all over again.

When one of his opponents Apparated out, the other quickly followed, and he spun around, throwing out a shield just in time to keep a curse from hitting Harry. When it impacted his shield, the shield fell, but the curse dissipated inches from Harry’s chest. Harry’s wand arm was shaking with the strain, and he was listing to one side, left arm wrapped around his wound, pressed against the bandages. Something had hit him – or the wound had opened again during the fighting. Moody moved in on Bellatrix, joining the fight.

As the last few pockets of fighting ended with Death Eaters disapparating or fallen, Longbottom, Black, and Zdenek all moved in on Lestrange. She gestured, fire whipping from her wand, and Disapparated.

The fire twisted and grew, opening up to fill all the space between them and where the witch had once stood. Tongues of flame reached out and twisted, almost alive. Suddenly sparks flew, and from the center of the flames emerged a towering serpent, splitting off into coils and throwing out fire in all directions, eating up the ground beneath it and everything in its path.

“Fiendfyre!” Zdenek shouted, and raised her wand. Moody met her, raising his own, and Frank Longbottom looked over, face pale.

“I don’t know the counterspell!” Frank shouted over the noise of the fire, wand held up uncertainly against the flames. The roaring was growing louder, and the fire more immense.

“Then find someone who does!” Moody bellowed, and together, he and Zdenek began to cast.

Extinguishing fiendfyre was nearly impossible, but with Lestrange gone, the flames weren’t held under her control, and they were less powerful than they might have been had she stayed. Still, it was a feat beyond either of them. The only alternative was to contain it; ward it in until it ran out of fuel to consume, and press the ward’s boundaries in until it turned in on itself, devouring what was left of the magic fueling the spell. For that, they needed a perimeter.

Moody and Zdenek met, then began to pace each other, warding a circle around the flames. They lashed out, flames erupting where they were held back only by an invisible barrier, and fire ripped out around the edge at the two casters.

Before it could reach him, the ward grew; Frank had come running back, and behind him was a grim-faced Dumbledore, his wards spiraling up and over the fire, pressing it down. With him, they could move more quickly. There was no way to rush; a single hole in the wards and all the force they contained would come surging out at once in one immense firestorm. But Moody had to resist the urge to rush. Harry Neville had been on the other side of Lestrange when she cast the fiendfyre.

When they were halfway around it, he saw Harry Neville. He’d been pushed back by the flames to the shops behind him – the wall was half destroyed. The fire hadn’t reached him yet, but he was backed up against the rubble, and didn’t have much more space to retreat from it. When he saw them, he shot them a look of relief – but as the wards limited where the flames could go, they gathered into one enormous mass, before shooting a pillar of fire out in the only direction left to them: straight toward Harry Neville.

Harry dove toward them in a desperate attempt to get around the fire, but Moody could see he wasn’t going to make it. Abandoning caution and pushing the wards forward wasn’t an option; if he did, he would risk every life still in the square outside Gringotts if they weakened too much for the fire to get through. He felt a bitter rage rise up, and his breath caught with the overwhelming feeling of failure; he couldn’t do anything now but watch him die.

Then Dumbledore moved, abandoning the wards and shouting out a spell Moody had never heard before. Moody felt the strain the moment he was holding his half of the wards on his own; then Dumbledore’s spell took effect. The blast of heat and sound from the roaring, hissing flames suddenly came to a standstill as for a moment, the fire stopped in place, held in abeyance by Dumbledore’s will.

Harry made it behind the wards, and not a second later, the flames snapped back into motion, raging as they rushed to escape. But Madam Zdenek was visible now on the other side, and Dumbledore recast the ward, joining Moody once more. The last gap closed, and the flames began to dim. The three of them drew the wards slowly downward and inward, closing them around the fire like the jaws of a trap, and every moment another part of the fire flickered and died, fuel gone and magic spent. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two from the time they’d closed the ward, but it felt much longer, focused as he was, before the last sparks died.

In the wake of the sound of battle and fire, the silence felt eerie. The alley was quiet, the only sounds low voices and groans. Those still standing moved to help the injured and take the fallen Death Eaters into custody.

The adrenaline gone, his focus faded, and he felt fully his injuries. His left arm hung at his side, the elbow screaming at him in pain, and he laid his wand on it, wrapping it in a cast until it could be treated. His shoulders sagged with weariness, and his body ached. Nevertheless, Moody turned to look over the plaza, knowing he had more work to do now that the battle was done.

Harry had found his feet, his side bleeding sluggishly and burns down his side. His jeans were torn from the rubble, and cuts and abrasions marked his arms. His face was singed, and a line of blood traced its way down one cheek where he’d been cut. Pale and shaking, looking completely exhausted, he somehow still had the energy to shake off the hands that reached to steady him.

Moody got close enough to hear him say, “I don’t need St. Mungo’s, I’m fine.” He rolled his eyes, tired and exasperated and out of patience with Harry Neville’s dramatics

Alice Longbottom opened her mouth to argue with him, but Moody intervened.

“I’ll take care of it,” Moody said, waving her off.

Harry was swaying where he stood, barely on his feet. Moody barely hesitated before lifting his wand and shooting a silent petrification at his back. Harry’s limbs snapped together, and Moody caught him by one arm, propping him up, before he fell.

“Right then. I’ll be back to help with cleanup in a few minutes. I’ll get a statement from Neville here, too, when he’s up for it.” His actions met shocked and disapproving looks from the Longbottoms, though Madam Zdenek only looked exasperated, and he thought Albus looked rather amused. Ignoring them, he tightened his grip on Harry and apparated away.

They appeared in his backyard, a tangled mess of plants and overgrown lawn, where Moody disabled his security spells with the ease of long practice while keeping Harry upright with his other hand. The kid was glaring daggers at him, and if he could move or speak, Moody was sure he’d have a few choice words.

The house itself was a small brick building, two stories tall. With the security spells down, the front door opened to let him in, and he kicked it closed behind him. Bypassing his small sitting room, he hauled the dead weight upstairs to his spare room and conjured up a mattress; it wouldn’t be as comfortable as a real bed, but it would do for now. He dropped Harry unceremoniously onto it and lifted his wand, summoning a potion.

“Finite,” he muttered, turning the wand toward Harry, who immediately tried to sit up, drawing breath to shout. Moody pushed him back down.

“Stay put and drink this,” he said, and shoved the potion into his hand, preempting any protests about his prior treatment.

Harry glowered at him. “You just kidnapped me. Why should I?”

“It’s Dreamless Sleep,” Moody told him. “And you’re either going to drink it, or I’m going to Stun you and drop you off at St. Mungo’s, and they can deal with your antics. I ought to take you there anyway, just so you won’t be my problem. So if you don’t want to be fussed over by Healers for the next week, you’ll drink that, and you’ll stay in bed until you don’t have a hole in your side anymore. Are we clear?”

Harry’s expression spoke for him, but Moody stared him down. “I have to go back and help with the aftermath. Every minute I spend here because of your stubborn lack of self-preservation is another minute I’m not doing something useful. Take the damn potion.”

Harry took it, tossing it down with a grimace. Within a minute, the potion kicked in, and the kid began to droop. Turning, Moody pulled a quilt down from the closet and laid it gently on the bed. By the time he had unfolded it, Harry was asleep. With the mulishness off his face and the war-weary and haunted eyes shut, the young man almost looked his age. The picture was only belied by the too-thin frame and the tension that remained in him even as he drifted off to sleep, and as Moody shut the door softly, he had the sudden sentimental thought that the kid was far too young to be so war-weary.

“Getting damn maudlin,” he muttered to himself, and went to recast the wards before heading back to Diagon Alley.

When Harry woke, he was lying in bed in an unfamiliar room. For a few minutes, he couldn’t place where he was. His head felt fuzzy, and he blinked slowly up at the ceiling. It felt like he was floating, and he tried to gather his thoughts. Every time he thought he could grasp at them, they seemed to slip away, just out of reach. He blinked again, hard. The world came into blurry focus, and he realized he was missing something.

_Glasses_ , he thought blearily, and his hand groped blindly off to the side. It was caught by something, and put back. _That’s strange_ , he decided, and his eyes closed again.

The next time he woke, it was to a dull, throbbing pain in his side. He groaned, trying to sit up and look, but his body wouldn’t move. It ached, and his limbs felt heavy and limp. There was something keeping him from moving, he realized, and after a moment of thought his blurry eyes realized that he was covered in a thick quilt. It seemed to weigh down his arms, and he didn’t have the energy to push it away.

He heard footsteps at his side and thought he should be alarmed, but for some reason, it didn’t seem important. He blinked slowly up at the person-shaped blur bending over him.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Neville?” a voice said. He wondered why Neville was here. They hadn’t seen each other for a while now, and for some reason just out of reach, he didn’t think it was possible. Neville couldn’t be here because-

The thought slipped away. A moment later, consciousness followed.

This time, he dreamed. He saw shadowy figures moving against a bright background that twisted around, reaching for them. The shadows disappeared, one by one, overcome by the brightness. It grew, and grew, reaching out for him, and he couldn’t move away. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it couldn’t reach him. He couldn’t let it reach him. He tried to back away, but nothing happened; he tried to move, but he was frozen in place. The light grew closer, and brighter, twisting and stretching, rearing back like a snake ready to strike. His eyes began to hurt from the glow of it, as it drew closer and closer. It lunged at him, and he flinched away, but it struck only his eyes, and the pain was in the incandescent fire searing his eyelids with its brightness

He woke to sunlight, and slammed his eyes shut a moment later. A rustle of curtains made him try to crack them open, suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone. He felt a bed beneath him, but he didn’t know where he was. When the spots in his eyes cleared, he saw two faces looking back. One, he didn’t recognize; the other was Moody.

“Back with us?” Moody asked.

He nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but it was dry and uncooperative. The other figure slowly came into focus: a slender, middle-aged man with a kind face. He handed Harry a glass of water. “Here, Mr. Neville. Drink this,” he said. “Do you want to try and sit up?”

Harry took a sip and swallowed, then said hoarsely, “Yes, please.” The man put a hand behind him, helping him sit, then stacked pillows behind him. Propped against them, he could sit upright, though his body protested the change.

“I’m Healer Travis Blackburn, Mr. Neville,” the man said. “I was on night duty in your room when you were at St. Mungo’s, so I’m familiar with the curse on your side. Mr. Moody called me in to look at you; he said you were refusing to come to the hospital to seek medical treatment?”

“Er, yes, but-“ Harry started, eyes on Healer Blackburn’s wand.

“You said you didn’t want to go to St. Mungo’s,” Moody told him, smirking. “So I brought a Healer here instead.

Healer Blackburn shot Moody a disapproving look.

“Mr. Neville, since you are awake and out of immediate danger, it is your right to refuse treatment. However, I would strongly recommend against it. You are in very bad shape. Are you comfortable speaking to me with Mr. Moody in the room, or would you prefer to speak alone?”

Harry glanced at Moody and let his body slump back against the pillows. “It’s fine,” he said, “he can stay.” The last day was coming back to him now, in bits and pieces. He remembered being in the bookstore, before – _Bernie and Melissa!_ He thought with sudden alarm. He didn’t know if they were okay, didn’t know if they blamed him for anything, didn’t know if he was fired for hiding his injury and lying to them. And then Moody was there, and then there were Death Eaters. They were fighting, and Bellatrix Lestrange was there. Then there was fire, he thought, and then – he couldn’t remember anything after that. He blinked again, slowly. He thought he remembered part of a conversation with Bernie, and with Moody, before – but he couldn’t place it. He knew it was important, but trying to pin it down made his head ache.

He realized that Healer Blackburn was talking – his voice had faded out into a low drone overhead.

“Sorry, what?” he said. The Healer patiently began again.

“Mr. Neville, you’ve been unconscious for a day, and on some very strong potions to help your body mend. Your curse wound in your side had regressed nearly to the point it was at when you first got it. Over the last day, we’ve gotten it contained, and it’s beginning to heal again. Besides that, you have some burns on your side – burns from fiendfyre. They can’t be treated like we usually would – the best we can do is manage the pain until they heal on their own. Fiendfyre is dark magic, and the damage from it is not something we are able to counter. You may have scars. Besides that, you are suffering from a head injury, and possibly a concussion. You have numerous contusions and abrasions, and you’re suffering from long-term malnutrition and exhaustion, which appears to have gotten worse since I last saw you, not better.”

“To be frank, Mr. Neville,” Healer Blackburn said, “while I don’t know your circumstances, if you continue on as you have been, you will only continue to worsen. Your body needs to rest and heal – and not only to recover from this curse.”

Harry looked down, unable to meet his eyes. He knew that, but he didn’t seem to have any good options. There was a moment of silence, then Healer Blackburn spoke again.

“Auror Moody, would you give us a moment, please?”

Moody left the room, and the Healer sat down beside the bed. “Mr. Neville,” he said, waiting until Harry looked up at him to continue. “Healer scans show more than just current injuries. There are some very long-term signs of injuries and scarring, going back years. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but it looks as though it hasn’t stopped. I could make a few guesses, if I really wanted to, about what you’ve been through. Malnutrition for at least the past year, and for sporadic periods even earlier. Scars, curse wounds, broken bones – this is not a normal medical reading for a teenager. If you are caught up in something, or if you are running from something, and you don’t have any resources, there are ways to get you help.”

Harry let out a breath, considering what he could say.

“Thank you, Healer Blackburn, but that’s all in the past,” he said after a long silence. “I’m fine now.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Healer Blackburn said bluntly. Harry grimaced, knowing that was true.

“I have known Alastor Moody a very long time,” Healer Blackburn said, and Harry looked up in surprise. “We have been colleagues of a sort for a long time, given the number of injuries Aurors sustain in the line of duty, but friends for even longer. We were at school together. It’s clear you don’t trust St. Mungo’s – and yes, I do know that you gave us a fake name – and that you don’t have anywhere else to go. So if I may give you some advice?”

He waited for Harry to nod before he continued.

“Trust him. And let him help you. He doesn’t go out of his way for just anybody, he sees to much in his job to be able to step in for everyone in a bad situation. But for whatever reason, he’s willing to go out on a limb for you, and I know him well enough to know it’s not just out of pity. Wherever you were, whatever your situation, if you go back to it, you won’t be recovering. Whether it’s from St. Mungo’s or from someone else, it’s not shameful to let someone help you get back on your feet.”

Harry didn’t say anything, and he stood. “I’ll come back to check in on you tomorrow. I hope you’ll still be here when I do.”

With that, he left the room, exchanging a few quiet words with Moody at the door. When he left, Moody came back in.

He looked at Harry for a long moment, studying him, and Harry fought not to flinch under the scrutiny. Finally, Moody shook his head, letting out a huff of laughter. “You’re something else, kid,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “But we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that chapter was hard! I have been neglecting my novel in an attempt to get this up and posted (but I realize the cliffhanger was evil so here you go - you're welcome). The next chapter might take a little longer - I need to make up for my neglect and go write my novel again. But I'll try and have at least one more up before I start grad school - because once I do, who knows when I'll have free time?
> 
> As always, please do comment - I love seeing what you guys think and talking about my fic and this 'verse. And thank you all so much for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

Marlene McKinnon quietly seated herself on a stool at the corner of the bar at the Hog’s Head, where the two long counters met. The air was slightly musty, with the smell of stale beer and smoke, and the interior was dim. She was sitting alone, several empty seats between her and the nearest patron, and at her back were all the tables that made up the rest of the seating. From her seat, she could look off to each side and seem to just be looking down the bar- other than those directly behind her, she could watch everyone without giving her interest away.

Aberforth slid a pint in front of her, slipping her coin off the counter and tucking it away. Her careful disguise meant she didn’t look at all like herself today. He was far too canny to give her away, but his discretion meant that she could never quite tell if he recognized her or not when she came here looking like a stranger.

Her hair was blond this evening, instead of its usual curly black, and she wore it down over her shoulders. Careful application of muggle makeup had changed her facial features subtly enough that no one would realize her as Marlene McKinnon, lightening her skin from is usual dark brown and shaping it with slightly different contours. Anna Bones had taught her that when they were in school together- witches (or, occasionally, wizards) might recognize a beauty charm or glamour spell, but those could be spotted or dispelled. Few would recognize muggle makeup.

Few patrons of the Hog’s Head bar were distanced enough from the workings of the underside of the wizarding world not to have some kind of appearance charm, of course, so layered atop her makeup and hair dye was a spell that shifted her eye color and lightened her skin another shade. Whoever looked past those would think themselves clever for seeing through her disguise, not knowing that they were seeing only another disguise underneath.

Few in the Order knew it, but Marlene’s family business had for generations had a number of less-than-legal connections and back doors. Even most in her family didn’t keep up with those contacts, but Marlene had been intrigued by it, and early on had begun to learn from her uncle. He’d taught her everything she needed to know about the underworld to keep the shadier side of their business alive.

Now, she had more important goals than business. Working with the Order, she knew that any kind of information they could get on the Death Eaters was crucial- for the most part, they were flying blind, with no idea when the next attack would hit or even who was in Voldemort’s inner circle and who just held sympathies. But she’d heard rumors of someone searching for artifacts – including Dark artifacts – and she knew they might lead somewhere interesting. There were groups she’d never done business with that she knew about. Some were too dangerous for her to have been involved with before, others simply not relevant to her own magical artifact acquisitions, since she wasn’t interested in the darker magics. But now, she hoped to find one of those groups, one with a reputation for good business, despite their Dark inclinations. And more importantly, she hoped to find out who they were doing business with.

She kept her gaze casual as it swept across the bar, not spending too long looking at any patron, before returning it to the grimy bar in front of her, staring into the depths of her mug. She recognized most of the patrons, but the ones she was hoping to see had not yet arrived.

A table of hags in the corner were regulars; interesting to talk to if you could get them to talk to someone outside their circle, but they weren’t involved in either the black market dealings of dark objects or the agenda of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. A solitary vampire had come in and was nursing a suspiciously red-tinged drink in the darkest corner of the bar, but while he was sizing up the other patrons with far less subtlety than she was, she had seen him many times before. He liked to intimidate new patrons, but he came for a few drinks and then left again. He had never, to her knowledge, done more than stare.

A few local drunks were in as well – they had arrived earlier than she, and were already well on their way to inebriation, talking louder than they needed to and swaying in their seats. They, too, were not who she was looking for.

Several others were here, but they were here on their own or with friends – not regulars, but not new faces, either. And while all of them had chosen the Hog’s Head over some other, nicer pub like the Leaky Cauldron or the Three Broomsticks, it was probably because most wouldn’t have been let into the nicer pubs. They were all overtly dangerous, the kind of person that got a second glance and a wide berth on the street, but none were the right kind of suspicious.

She drained her drink and slid it back over the bar toward Aberforth.

“’Nother,” she said, purposely roughening her voice, letting it sound a little lilting, a little tipsy.

“If you’re here to drink away your sorrows, fine, but I don’t need to hear about it,” Aberforth snapped, heading her off. She must look like she had something to complain about. He fixed her with a hostile glare as he refilled her pint. She smothered a grin behind her mask of sullen discontent. Nowhere else could you find a bartender less inclined to lend an ear to his patrons. But the patrons of the Hog’s Head invariably preferred discretion over a sympathetic ear, and so it never cost him customers.

She took a deep draft from her newly filled mug, putting to the side all of her own distaste at the brew. While not everything Aberforth served was appallingly bad, the woman she was tonight, drinking away her sorrows and paying attention to no one else’s business, would only care if it was cheap.

The door opened again, and this time a few wizards came in, cloaks on despite the warm evening. This wasn’t unusual for the Hog’s Head. She kept drinking.

They took a seat, the three of them heading for a table off to the side, not so far in the corner they looked furtive, but far enough that they couldn’t be heard if they talked in low voices – not without the listener being obvious.

Or maybe she was reading too much into this. Maybe that table simply looked the cleanest of all the dubiously sanitary options this evening.

She turned back to her drink, waiting for them to get settled. A fourth cloaked figure came in and joined them. None of them removed their hoods. As soon as the last person sat, they began talking quietly, apparently at ease. Nothing in their attitudes besides their cloaks suggested illicit activity. If they were who she was looking for, they were good.

Halfway through her next drink, she stood, sliding lopsidedly off the barstool, and walked on mostly steady feet toward the hallway and the Hog’s Head’s loo. Ignoring all the other tables, she headed straight there. Detouring past another table, even pretending to stumble, would be obvious enough that she couldn’t risk it.

Once inside the bathroom, however, she straightened, the appearance of inebriation sliding off her as easily as a cloak. Pulling out her wand, she cast a few quick charms. Aberforth had cleverly warded the Hog’s Head against most spellcasting – enough business went on here that most appreciated it, and it meant that eavesdropping often took on a distinctly muggle cast, listening at doors or clever tricks far more prevalent than charms or spells to aid the listener.

Still, there were a few things she could do. A slight amplification charm on the hood of her cloak, using her experience in magical acoustics to make it catch sound and redirect it toward her ears. No one looking for listening charms would find it, but if she could get the angle just right, it would ferry sound from her target to her and her alone. Then a distracting little charm she’d picked up from Anna’s copy of _Charms to Amuse: Parenting Babies and Toddlers._ A twirl of her wand and then her sleeve gained just the slightest bit of independent movement. The original charm was a minor animation spell, giving an object just enough movement to respond to a curious infant on its own, freeing up the parents’ attention. Her version would give just enough movement to draw the curious eye. If someone was watching her, hopefully the slight flutter of her sleeve would make them focus on her hand, thinking she might be doing some small and subtle wandless charm, while she used the charms in her hood to eavesdrop. Misdirection at its finest.

Now prepared, she headed back out to the bar, taking up her seat once more. She was aware of suspicious eyes on her back; a usual occurrence in the Hog’s Head. But as she’d hoped, they focused on her wrist, not her hood. “’Nother,” she slurred at Aberforth, who grunted an acknowledgement, filling her mug and sliding it back without a word.

Then she settled in to wait. She let her head tip slowly side to side, listing off in one direction before jerking herself back upright, looking for all the world like she was about to nod off in her seat, just another drunk passed out in the Hog’s Head on a Friday night. As her head tipped, her cloak moved with her, and she caught snatches of low voices from around the pub.

“Don’ understan’” one of the drunks shouted loudly, and she winced as it echoed in her ears. She silently berated herself for her obvious reaction. Thankfully, the sound was grating enough that her slip didn’t seem out of place. “Don’ unnerstan’ why he would say that. We were mates, y’know?” he continued, and she tipped her head hastily away.

She lilted farther left, picking up a new voice. “-can tell you, it worked wonders,” one of the hags said in a deceptively soft and gentle voice. “Much more effective than the usual recipe. Of course, the substitutions can be tricky-“

Regretfully, Marlene tipped her head again, jerking it up and sideways, over her other shoulder. The conversation, which she thought might have been about alchemical substitutions or potioneering, had sounded intriguing. But now, head leaning just a little to the right, she caught the conversation she was hoping to hear.

She propped her head on her arm and took a drink, draining her mug. Leaning on her hand, she let her eyes drift slightly closed, and shoved her mug forward at Aberforth one more time. “’Nother,” she said, and this time he did address her.

“You pass out, I’m dumping you outside. The bar’s for paying customers,” he said flatly, and shoved her mug back, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. She groped for it with one hand. “S’alright,” she said. “M’fine.” He grunted unhappily and moved away to pull a drink for the vampire.

With her eyes nearly closed, she gave all her attention to the conversation happening behind her.

Someone was saying in a quiet tenor, “-two more in this week, and one sold. But we might need to go looking for a new buyer. I’ve heard the last one got caught up in that mess in Diagon, and that’s not just bad for business – that’s not something we want to be in the middle of. That’s a good way to end up on the wrong side of the Ministry – or the business end of someone’s wand.”

A new voice, a deeper one, replied. “Seeker, we need you to start looking for new buyers. Go international- less complications there. Start with the usual buyers for historical artifacts and rare goods. See if they’re interested in expanding operations. We need to move this stuff out of the country.”

The tenor replied, “I’ll try the market for goods from the old Egyptian tombs. At the very least, the contacts from the tomb raiders don’t mind under-the-table goods. But even if they’re not interested, they might know people who are.”

“Good,” the second voice replied. “Silver, how are we coming on the new acquisitions?”

A woman’s voice joined the conversation. “I’ve got the deal all set up, but they won’t move them. Too much of a risk bringing them into the country with everyone on high alert from the war. If we want them, they’re ours – but we have to either move them ourselves or find our own courier.”

“Anyone you know that would be interested?” the man asked.

“Sorry, Storm,” she said.

“Make the rounds,” the one called Storm said, though she didn’t know to whom. Then the conversation turned away. She listened a while longer, letting herself sag slowly down to the bar, but the rest of their discussion was mundane – idle chatter about the attack on Diagon Alley, the latest gossip in the _Prophet_ , the Ministry’s statement denouncing the actions of the Death Eaters – that, they scoffed at, and Marlene inwardly agreed; a denunciation did nothing, at this point. But after the disaster that was Diagon, the Ministry was left scrambling to put safety measures in place.

She slid from her stool and let herself hit the ground, hiding her revulsion at the state of Aberforth’s floors with practiced ease. She pushed herself upright, leaning on the stool, and shoved the rest of her coins at him, covering her tab, before staggering out the door.

A voice called after her. “Need some help getting home, darlin’?” one of the drunkards from earlier called, leering. She ignored it and threw her arm out into the street. If she had actually drunk as much as she pretended, she wouldn’t have been able to apparate. The Knight Bus arrived with a screech, and she shoved her way on board, fumbling some coins into the waiting hands of the attendant and finding her way to a seat. “Leaky Cauldron,” she said.

At the Leaky Cauldron, she let herself seem to be just one more patron coming in for the night; despite the attack on Diagon Alley, the pub had a crowd, though there were Aurors posted at the door and the patrons were watchful. There, she let herself look far more sober than before, and settled in for a while – long enough to have sobered up, in case anyone was watching. Probably no one was, but she knew the importance of being thorough. The wrong moment of carelessness would see her dead in an alley. It was only after time had passed, and she knew all those around her had dismissed her from their minds, that she rose and left the pub to Apparate away. A string of Apparitions later, shifting her appearance slightly back to normal with each one, and then she was home. No one would be able to connect the drunk woman in the Hog’s Head to Marlene McKinnon now.

Safely home, she let out a breath, the tension falling away. She’d learned enough tonight to show she was on the right track. Someone ‘Storm’ and his associates had sold to had been involved in the attack on Diagon Alley. She needed to tell Albus. And then she needed to go back.

Alastor Moody conjured a chair beside Harry’s bed and sat down, fixing him with a glare. He was actually a little impressed with how well the kid had been doing so far, both at looking after himself and at keeping his secrets. But that was going to end today.

“We need to talk,” he said.

He let the silence stretch on as Harry shifted awkwardly on the bed. Moody wasn’t going to be the one to speak first. He’d wait the kid out and see what happened. Harry looked a little unsettled under Moody’s staring, until finally he gave in.

“What is there to talk about?”

“What?” Moody’s stare turned disbelieving. Harry Neville could not be serious right now.

A moment passed, and Harry continued to look determined not to have this conversation, and even more astoundingly, honestly confused about why Moody was going to have it anyway.

Moody resisted the urge to roll his eyes, just barely. He thought perhaps he’d need to save it for later on. He’d never expected any conversation with Harry Neville to be easy, but he didn’t expect the kid would still be making it this difficult. Not after the last few days.

“Right then,” he said, switching tactics. He would lay it all out there, and if the kid still couldn’t see the problem, he’d obviously just have to hand him over to St. Mungo’s for being delusional. “You were living in the woods, with a curse wound that was rapidly getting worse. You ran off injured and half-naked to fight Death Eaters, took on Bellatrix Lestrange, nearly got burned alive by Fiendfyre, and then refused to go to St. Mungo’s. The result of all that is that you’re now living in my guest bedroom, recovering from more curse wounds, and still not telling anyone so much as your name, despite the Death Eaters now probably having put a target on ‘Harry Neville’s head.’ Did I miss anything?”

“Why is this your problem?” Harry shot back, defensive. “Because you’re an Auror? Well if I’m in trouble for using a fake name, just arrest me then!”

This time Moody did roll his eyes. “Are you really gonna make me say it? Come on, kid. You think Longbottom was looking out for you in Diagon just because it’s his job? You think your boss and that girl you work with called me over because they wanted me there as an Auror, to arrest you? And don’t think I’ve forgotten that you put me down as your emergency contact.”

“Look - fine, I’m sorry, I can put someone else-“ Harry said, but Moody cut him off.

“That’s not what this is about!” He was almost shouting now, frustrated with Harry and furious at everything that had brought them to this point.

“Then what?” Harry’s voice rose, matching Moody’s tone and volume. He looked as frustrated as Moody felt. At least it wasn’t just him, Moody thought. He wondered if there was a way for this conversation to go any worse.

“I care.” Moody bit out, hardly believing the words were coming out of his mouth. He cared more than he let on, that’s why he’d stuck with this job for so long, despite the toll it took, despite everything. But never before had he actually had to _say_ it.

“Why should you? You don’t even know me!” Harry asked. All the fight seemed to have drained out of him, and now he just looked bewildered at the idea. It made Moody want to hex something.

“Just – take it, kid,” he said, his own anger draining away to be replaced with a sort of quiet defeat. “Sometimes people do.”

There was another long silence, but this one wasn’t so awkward or tense. Instead, it was welcome – a moment for them both to breathe. It was Harry that spoke first, this time.

“So – what is this about, then?” he said tentatively, not meeting Moody’s eyes. “You already know pretty much everything. I don’t know what it is you want from me.”

“The truth,” Moody said. “Where you came from, what your name is, what you’ve been doing, where you’ve been staying, why you fight like you’ve been in a war. All of it. What it is you need help with right now, to get back on your feet – and don’t even try to tell me you don’t.”

“Then what?” Harry still looked apprehensive.

“Then I go collect your things. You stay here until a Healer clears you to be working again – and then you can go back to work, but you won’t go back to living in the woods. You let me help sort out what we need to about your identity, you live here – or with the Longbottoms, I know Frank offered, or anywhere else you want, but in an actual house with a roof over your head – until you have enough to move into a place of your own. There will be more questions from the Ministry – we’ll need testimony about Diagon Alley, when you’re up for it.”

He hesitated before the next thing, remembering Longbottom’s words at the last Order meeting, before continuing. “Then, we sort out what to do about that target you’ve just put on your back. If you want protection, the Aurors can sort that out. But if you want to be involved, if you want to fight back against Voldemort – well, you don’t have to make that decision now. But when you’re healed, if that’s what you decide, then we can talk.”

Harry was looking at him with gratitude and maybe something veering close to amazement. It made Moody uncomfortable.

“Of course, you have to stop pulling stupid stunts like you have the last two times you’ve found yourself in the middle of a fight,” he added on. “No use doing any of this if you’re just going to run off and get your damn fool self killed.”

For some reason, that made Harry snort out a laugh. Moody was done trying to understand this kid.

Looking at Moody now, Harry could just see him the way he’d been before, shouting “Constant Vigilance!” at everyone and trying his best to keep them all alive. He had known that beneath Moody’s gruff exterior was a good man, but he’d always thought that Moody was more focused on fighting Death Eaters than anything else – that he was completely devoted to his job. And more than that, this Moody didn’t know him. But he was here anyway, looking out for Harry. It was reassuring to see, though, that despite his kindness he was still the same old Mad-Eye.

And it was surprising, too, what he was hinting at. Harry thought that his comment about fighting Voldemort might have been a very subtle nod to the Order. After all that time they’d fought to keep them from joining, now he was going to be invited? He felt a wave of gratitude toward Moody for treating him like an adult, even after all their conversations. And even though Moody still called him kid, he thought, a little disgruntled at the title.

“I can’t tell you everything,” Harry admitted. “And I can’t tell you why.” When Moody’s face darkened again and he looked to be barely restraining himself, Harry quickly kept talking. “I know that sounds like I’m just dodging the point, but I’ll tell you everything I can, about who I am and where I’ve been staying and all of that. But the stuff about my past – I just can’t tell you. If-“ he took in a quick breath, “if that’s not alright, then I can just go-“

“You’re staying here either way. Idiot.” Moody’s face was thoughtful as he studied Harry. “Alright. I’ll accept there’s some things you can’t tell me. But if it’s because of something illegal, I can get you immunity. After what you’ve done – twice now – for Wizarding Britain, hell, they should probably be getting you a reward.”

“What? No, I don’t want-“ Harry began protesting, immediately alarmed. Moody waved him off.

“Yeah, kid, I’ve noticed. Spill.”

Harry pulled himself further upright. He hated being bed-ridden, but if he was going to have this conversation, he was at least going to try and keep some of his dignity.

“I’ve been camping in the Forest of Dean,” Harry said, “but there isn’t anything there. It was all in my bag – I left it at Flourish and Blotts. Harry is my real first name,” he said, eyeing Moody cautiously, “but I can’t tell you my real last one. Not because of anything illegal!” he added hastily. “But because it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. You wouldn’t have any records, no one knows me by that name anymore – it doesn’t really matter what it was.”

“Then why not tell me?” Moody pressed.

Harry thought about it, for half a second. He was tempted. But he knew exactly how dangerous that could be – and besides, what would that do? A strange kid named Harry Potter shows up and disappears, and just a little over a year later, the Potters have a kid and name him Harry? Who not long after that has the same scar? No. He pushed down the impulse and just shook his head. “I can’t.”

Moody sighed, but seemed resigned. “What can you tell me then?”

Harry chose his words carefully, trying to tell Moody as much as he could without giving away any details. “My parents were killed by a dark wizard. I grew up in the muggle world, but I found out about magic when I was a kid. Most of what I know that’s important I taught myself,” he hoped Moody would just assume that he’d been telling the truth when he told Frank he’d been homeschooled – and, he told himself, it wasn’t a lie. Most of the stuff he’d learned in Hogwarts had been useless against Voldemort, in the end. They’d had to teach themselves to fight. “I learned to fight because I’ve run into Death Eaters before. No one else was teaching us to take care of ourselves, so we did what we had to.”

“Us?” Moody asked.

“My friends. They’re gone.” Harry answered shortly, and Moody didn’t press.

“I wasn’t planning to come to London,” Harry said. That, too, was technically true – he hadn’t planned to arrive in London in 1979. “But everything else is gone. I had a few galleons on me, and my wand, but that was about it. So I got a job, bought a couple robes, and figured I could just – camp out until I figured things out.”

“Except you got your ass kicked by a couple of fights with Death Eaters, so that didn’t quite work out,” Moody commented, one side of his mouth twisting in a sarcastic smile.

“I did not!” Harry said, indignant – but Moody was cackling. He gave a pointed look to Harry where he was laying in bed, side bandaged and skin scorched from Fiendfyre.

“Sure, kid.” Moody said, and Harry wondered why he’d agreed to tell him anything at all.

“Well, anyway, that’s – that’s everything,” Harry said lamely, not sure what else he could explain.

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Moody said, “because there’s still some pretty big holes in that story of yours. But it’s something we can work with, anyway.” He got up, grunting as his knees cracked. “I’ll go get your things from the bookstore and see what I can do about making you officially Harry Neville. Don’t make me regret this,” he said warningly, and Harry looked down, shoulders coming up a little defensively. He didn’t know what was going to happen – one day Moody might find he’d just disappeared without warning, and he’d never know what had happened – that Harry had made it home. Would he realize, Harry wondered, when he met Harry Potter for the first time? Would he recognize Harry Neville in the fifteen-year-old he met at the Dursleys?

“Take your potions,” Moody huffed, with a meaningful look at the small collection on the bedside table. “And go to sleep.”

“Wait!” Harry said as Moody was about to leave the room. “What happened in Diagon? After – I mean. I know people died. But – did it even make a difference?” he asked bitterly.

“It did,” Moody said. He looked angry, the same anger Harry felt about the attack, and the same bitterness at the lives they hadn’t been able to save. “Most of the people they got to St. Mungo’s pulled through. There were 13 dead, and over 60 injured – but it could’ve been a lot worse. One whole family gone, a couple of the ones that tried to fight back. And we lost one of our own, an Auror Trainee. Scrimgeour.”

Harry reeled back in shock. That couldn’t be possible. Rufus Scrimgeour had lived to be Minister of Magic after Fudge was gone.

Moody mistook his shock, and shook his head. “This can wait. It’s not your fault. We did what we could.” He hesitated a moment longer, like he wanted to say something else, before turning abruptly and heading out the door.

Harry collapsed back against the pillows. Panic balled up in his chest, and tears burned at his eyes. If Scrimgeour was dead, was it his fault? Had something he had done changed the future?

And as much as he hated himself for thinking it in that moment, when people were dead and injured, he couldn’t help the question pounding through his head, making his hands shake and his breathing come too fast.

If the future had changed, would he ever be able to go home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry.
> 
> Thanks for reading! See you next time ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long! I'm sorry! This chapter was fighting me so much.
> 
> And grad school (ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh it's fine it's fine it's all fine)
> 
> But here it is! And the next one is already in the works. I'm hoping to get at least another chapter or two up before November hits - and with it NaNoWriMo.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for kudos, and for all your comments - I love seeing them so much! They make my day :D

When Frank and Alice came in, the morning of their first day back at work, the office was quiet and somber. Alice slipped her hand into Frank’s. More than a few Aurors were still out today, injured and recovering. It had been two days since the attack, and even Moody, who she didn’t think had taken a day off work since he’d started, wasn’t there yet. And she wasn’t sure he would be, not when he’d been so protective of Harry Neville just a couple days before – Harry Neville who’d been badly injured in the attack on Diagon.

And Rufus Scrimgeour, of course, would never come into the office again.

Scrimgeour’s desk was covered with flowers. Frank and Alice stopped, and he didn’t say a word. She fought back tears. She hadn’t known him well, she knew the risks they took in this job, but still – it was a shock, and a tragedy. She didn’t need to know him well to grieve. She had worked with him, shared an office, laughed at his awful handwriting and his caffeine headaches even as he griped about her cheerfulness in the mornings.

Looking at his desk, she raised her wand, letting a ribbon of color blossom out of the end into a bouquet of solidagos and golden chrysanthemums. Frank slipped a note onto the desk. Their well-wishes and flowers would be given to Rufus’ family.

Her throat clenched, and she drew a sharp breath. Frank squeezed her hand gently, letting her lean into him. They quietly picked up their work, and she made her way to his desk, pulling over her chair, and settled in. No one today cared about office decorum – and she wasn’t leaving his side, nor he hers, not when they needed the silent reminder that they’d both made it – they were both still here.

But the office, while grieving, also had a hum of tension underneath. A burning anger and determination to make his death worth something. They weren’t after revenge, but they wouldn’t take days to mourn. The best way to honor him would be to do their jobs – and to get the ones who did it thrown in Azkaban.

At about nine, Moody showed up. He stopped for a moment by Scrimgeour’s desk, then his mouth twisted with anger. His face might’ve been carved of stone. He didn’t say a word, didn’t leave a note, but after his brief pause went to his office and firmly closed the door.

The hushed silence surrounding Alice was broken when Auror Bones, her supervisor, came over. “I need you – both of you,” she added, looking at Frank. “We have a meeting.”

Her face was stern and grim, but Alice took comfort in it – even in the face of the losses at Diagon, she seemed unshakeable. Senior Auror Bones had taken her under her wing, just as Moody was training Frank. And Alice was learning to deal with the departmental politics. She wondered, sometimes, if Bones was grooming her to be her replacement in a few years – everyone knew that Bones was going to be fast tracked to head up a department or serve in the courts as soon as a position opened. She was too scrupulously fair, too uncompromisingly ethical, and too competent not to be.

And it was for those reasons that Alice could never tell her about the work they did with the Order. She and Frank had joined, but they both felt conflicted, at times. To join a vigilante organization while charged with upholding the law tore at her, some days, tore her in two directions and left her feeling like she was failing them both. But Voldemort had been rising to power as they left school, and they hadn’t seen what adult life was like without his specter looming over the world. She couldn’t turn her back when Dumbledore asked for help, and Frank couldn’t either.

Moody was enough of a maverick that he didn’t give a damn what the Auror Department thought about vigilantes. The Order opposed Voldemort, he opposed Voldemort, and he was hunting Death Eaters either way. Alice figured that was probably enough for him. But Auror Bones would feel obligated to not only refuse them, but also to arrest them. Alice couldn’t put her in that position. She respected her too much.

And now she was bringing them to a meeting. Alice knew from the look on her face the news wasn’t going to be good. Frank rose silently, his face still wan and tired, and she leaned into him for a brief moment when she stood as well. “Who are we meeting, Auror Bones?” she asked.

“We’re meeting with Madam Zdenek and Director Crouch,” she told them grimly. “Longbottom” she directed her next words to Frank, looking him straight in the eyes, “You’ll be there to talk about Harry Neville. They’re pushing for a decision on what we should do. That’s two major attacks he’s fought against, now, and they can’t ignore it anymore. And it’s been decided that Auror Moody will not be asked to participate. You’re our next best authority.”

“You’ll be my other pair of eyes and ears,” she told Alice, who nodded. This wasn’t anything new. She’d been sitting in on meetings with Senior Auror Bones since she’d been assigned to her as a brand new Trainee fresh out of Hogwarts. She was rarely asked to contribute, but Auror Bones would ask for her opinions after, and walk her through what she’d missed. And Alice was learning to hold her own as an Auror in a room of politicians. Frank was better off with Moody as a mentor, she thought. He cared too much about people to be good at dealing with all the political double-talk, the self-interest and personal agendas that made their way into the meeting rooms. He’d never admit it, but he took the same view on those things as Moody, though with a lot less attitude about it. He wanted to be left alone by all the politics and paperwork to just do his job and do it well.

He sent her an unhappy look as they followed Auror Bones, and she took his hand and squeezed before letting it drop. Today of all days, he must be aching to spend time with their coworkers, not in conference rooms with politicians. He couldn’t understand how they spent their time playing games with peoples’ lives, and she loved him for that.

He gave her a grateful smile for her quiet support, and her expression must have turned a little soppy as well, because Auror Bones cleared her throat quietly without even turning around. They jerked apart a little, and Alice felt her cheeks warm.

The three of them walked into the conference room to find Madam Zdenek already waiting. “Take a seat,” she said, offering them a tired and strained smile. “Director Crouch should be here soon. He’s coming from another meeting with the Minister.”

As they sat, she passed them folders. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that after this last attack, the situation is tense. The Auror Corps will continue to do our jobs, but some in the Ministry feel that is not enough to give the public confidence in the ability of the Minister, or the Aurors, to deal with this threat. Director Crouch will be making decisions about the future of the Department. I will be speaking for the Auror Corps, and Auror Bones will be giving her recommendations as well. Auror Longbottom – Alice – you are here, as usual, in an observatory capacity only.” Alice nodded her understanding, and Madam Zdenek turned to Frank. “You, Auror Longbottom, are here because you were the one to engage with Harry Neville, who is now the hero of the hour yet again. You spoke with him when we first needed his testimony, gave your recommendations once before, and checked in on him regularly since, is that correct?”

“Yes, Madam,” Frank said. He drew breath, then hesitated.

“Something else, Auror Longbottom?”

“It’s nothing, Madam,” Frank said, and Madam Zdenek fixed him with a penetrating stare.

“Auror Longbottom, we have had a very bad couple of weeks. I am about to listen to our Head of Department tell me that I am not doing my job, and that the people who work for me are not doing theirs, and because he is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I will have to listen to him, and follow his direction, no matter how detrimental or political I believe his motivations to be. I expect obfuscation from the politicians, but until Bartemius Crouch is in this room, I would ask you to speak freely and plainly. We cannot deal with this situation with less than our fullest capability.”

“I was only going to say – Auror Moody talked to Mr. Neville every time I did, and more – and he has more experience than I do. Shouldn’t he be here instead?”

“Auror Moody has been deemed too… personally invested,” Madam Zdenek said, and the disbelief was so evident on her face that Alice choked down an entirely inappropriate snort of amusement. “Besides which,” she said, one hand going to her temples, “his particular brand of irreverent disregard for authority is the very last thing I need at this meeting today. I expect,” she added severely, “that the same cannot be said for you.”

“No, Madam,” Frank said, and the ghost of a smile flitted across her lips. “I thought not.”

At that moment, Crouch walked in. He was scowling, as usual, and his bearing was stiff. His hair was graying and his features lined, but the lines seemed carven into his face. Rather than making him look more human, they made him look more like graven stone, cold and distant. His eyes looked briefly over each of them before fixing on Madam Zdenek. He moved to a seat, and when he sat his body was rigid, back straight and formal. Alice thought he looked terribly uncomfortable, and it occurred to her that if he learned to sit back in a chair like a normal person, he might not be so scowly all the time. She kept that thought locked safely behind her politely interested features. For some reason, she thought he might not appreciate her input.

“The Minister feels that our response to the threat of Voldemort has not been sufficient,” Crouch began, without even a semblance of a greeting. “We’re pulling out the guards of Azkaban and placing more Dementors. The old guards will be able to focus instead on guarding places of public interest, while your Aurors will be free to pursue Voldemort and his forces more aggressively than you have been doing up until this point.”

“And may I ask, Director, what exactly it is that you and the Minister think we’ve been doing all this time?” Madam Zdenek asked icily.

He stared at her, and his lip curled up. “Not enough,” he said shortly. “We also have several trials coming up for the Death Eaters involved in the attack on Diagon Alley. I’m working on permission to have the Dementor’s Kiss given to any Death Eater convicted of terrorism. I expect I will have your support in this?” he said, and it was clear it wasn’t a question.

Madam Zdenek took it as one anyway. “You can expect whatever you like,” she said coldly, “but I lead a police force, not a force of executioners. The courts will handle justice – my Aurors will do their jobs, as they always have. And I will not see their testimony or actions subject to political maneuvering. If the Wizengamot chooses to permit the administration of the Dementor’s Kiss, that is their decision – but I will speak plainly – I will not use my position to shore up your political campaign.”

“You think this is about politics?” Crouch was white with fury, and Alice thought if he were any less of a statue he would have been spitting with rage. She had sat in on charged meetings before, but not like this. At her side, Frank looked openly uncomfortable witnessing this, shifting in his chair and shooting Madam Zdenek and Crouch nervous glances, and Auror Bones was as composed as ever. It was she who stepped in.

“Perhaps we should make the best use of Auror Longbottom’s time while we have it,” she said, with a pointed glance toward Frank, “and postpone this discussion to address your questions about Harry Neville? That is, I believe, the purpose of this meeting.”

“Yes, Auror Bones, I believe that seems wise,” Madam Zdenek said. Frank straightened a little as the full weight of Crouch’s gaze landed on him, hands clenching a little with nerves under the table. “I expect we will continue this conversation later, Director Crouch,” she added, and it felt like a warning.

“Very well,” he agreed, and the chill in the room let up slightly.

“Auror Longbottom, at our last meeting you were assigned to watch Harry Neville,” Crouch said, and Frank nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Report,” Crouch ordered. Madam Zdenek’s mouth was set in a firm, thin line of displeasure, but she didn’t countermand him.

“He started working at Flourish and Blotts,” Frank said. “I didn’t interact with him much, but he went in on time, left at the end of the day. I didn’t see where he was headed after, since he used the Apparition point, but the last time I had spoken to him, he didn’t have somewhere to stay – and given he’s now staying with Auror Moody as he recovers, I assume he’s still homeless. I spoke to him once and asked how he was doing, but he didn’t want to talk. I think he was a little skittish of talking to the Ministry after our conversation at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Skittish around the Ministry,” Crouch repeated. “And yet, he is staying with Alastor Moody, who’s been removed from this case,” Crouch looked like he’d bit into a lemon when he said the next few words, mouth puckered in distaste, “due to his personal attachment.”

“Yes, sir.” Frank said.

“How did that happen, then, if he wouldn’t talk to you?” Crouch said. “When did he and Auror Moody grow so close?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You were assigned to watch him, Auror Longbottom. How could you have missed this?”

“Auror Longbottom was assigned to watch him, yes,” Madam Zdenek broke in, “when it did not impede his other duties. And he was checking in on a private citizen who had acted admirably in the defense of others, not spying on a suspected threat. Did you expect him to follow the boy everywhere? To violate his privacy?”

“I expected him to have some inkling that his superior officer and the subject of his assignment had been talking,” Crouch shot back.

“I saw him again in Diagon on Wednesday,” Frank said, continuing his report after an uncomfortable silence. “When we broke the Apparition wards and made it into Diagon, we engaged the Death Eaters outside Gringotts. I saw him dueling Bellatrix Lestrange; he was caught behind the fiendfyre while you were fighting it,” he said, looking to Madam Zdenek. “After the fight was over- well, you saw him, Madam,” he told her.

“I did,” she said. “However, Director Crouch was not present at the battle, so please finish your report. What happened after the battle?” Alice heard the subtle implication there, and she knew Madam Bones had caught it too. While they had all been present and fighting to defend Diagon Alley, Director Crouch had presumably been playing politics at the Ministry. His expression soured further, if that was possible, but he didn’t respond.

“He was pretty badly injured, and they didn’t all look like they were recent,” Frank said. The underlying jab had gone right past him – she loved Frank dearly, but he was not made for politics. “He wasn’t wearing robes, either, and he was bandaged up, so either he’d been able to patch himself up earlier in the fight or he was still recovering from Bexley and ran in anyway. Then Auror Moody – er…” Frank seemed lost for words for the first time in his report, but after only a moment, he collected himself and continued. “Harry Neville insisted he was fine, but he was in pretty bad shape. Auror Moody hit him with a petrification and said he’d come back after he was getting taken care of – and that he’d get us Neville’s statement later.”

“Just to be clear, Auror Longbottom,” Crouch said, “Auror Moody kidnapped a British citizen after he had assisted in fighting Death Eaters?” His eyes narrowed. “If this is the state of the Auror Department, perhaps we need to launch an internal investigation of some kind to see if our Aurors are fit for duty.” His voice was level, but underneath his words lay a thrum vicious, bitter triumph.

Frank seemed at a loss for words. His eyes shot to the rest of them for support. It was Madam Zdenek who stepped in to pick up the conversation once more.

“I have already spoken with Auror Moody regarding his inappropriate behavior,” she said. “In this case, he acted out of concern for Harry Neville’s safety – and out of concern for Mr. Neville’s clear disregard for his own wellbeing. Aurors are authorized to step in when citizens are endangering themselves through reckless or self-destructive behavior. While the method was inappropriate, the intervention was not. Should Mr. Neville wish to press charges when he is well, that is his right, and he will be informed of it.”

“If he does, it will be a matter for the courts,” Auror Bones added. “They will decide whether Auror Moody’s intervention was warranted, and if so, whether excessive or inappropriate force was used.”

“But if he doesn’t press charges there’s no case?” Alice asked. She was pretty sure she knew the answer, but she was curious – and if it helped Auror Bones prove her point, all the better.

“That is correct, Auror Longbottom,” Bones said, and offered her a rare, slight smile of approval. Madam Bones had studied law, and was the legal authority in the room – that was part of why she had been asked to attend the meeting. “While the Department of Magical Law Enforcement does have managerial authority over the Aurors, without court decisions showing records of charges – sustained, not dismissed – of abuse of authority, consistent enough to constitute a pattern within the Auror Office, there are few legal grounds for a comprehensive internal investigation. However,” she added, scrupulously impartial as always, “it is well within the rights of Director Crouch to open an investigation, if he believes that to be the best use of our time.”

The triumph on Crouch’s face had been replaced by cold disdain. “I would like to see a report on how this was handled – and whether or not Mr. Neville wishes to press charges,” he informed Madam Zdenek.

“Very well,” she said.

“There is still the matter of Harry Neville.” Crouch said. “This is the second time he’s been in the middle of a Death Eater attack and fought back, and we can’t ignore it this time. We’ll need to debrief him again. And it wouldn’t be out of the question to give him an award from the Ministry – Minister Minchum is already considering it. Auror Longbottom, he knows you – you’ll be there. I will be present – and possibly the Minister as well,”

“Auror Moody intended to get his statement,” Frank said

“And Auror Moody disregarded any number of protocols, not to mention may have been guilty of kidnapping if Harry Neville wants to press charges,” Crouch pointed out, and on this, Madam Zdenek reluctantly agreed.

“We can’t accept Harry Neville’s statement from him until that’s cleared up.”

“And while he helped us out, he did duel Death Eaters, and we do have to ask whether it was all self-defense – and how far a private citizen may go in defense of others,” Auror Bones said. “The legal implications are greater than just this one case.”

Frank twisted to look at her. “But he was protecting people!” he protested.

“There’s a line between defending yourself and others and vigilante justice – acting without the authority of the law,” Auror Bones said. “Harry Neville’s actions were admirable – he saved any number of lives, on both occasions – and I believe that is what we will find when we ask him for his testimony about the events of last Wednesday. But we do need to ask him Our laws are quite clear, and while I believe that Harry Neville did a good thing, we must do our due diligence in upholding the law – and making it clear that while citizens have the right to defend themselves and others, they do not have the right to seek to administer justice themselves.”

“These are unprecedented times.” Crouch’s gaze was fixed with intent, and looking not at Auror Bones but into the distance, his voice stern and uncompromising. “Perhaps what once sufficed isn’t enough anymore. I’m not saying we condone vigilantism, but instead hold up Harry Neville as an example of what good citizenship looks like – an active defense of our lives, our homes, and our government. And encourage more people to stand up and fight the Death Eaters – and to report to the Ministry those who would aid and abet the actions of criminals and terrorists.”

“You mean to conscript private citizens into a pro-Ministry militia?” Madam Zdenek said disparagingly. “Or just make the Ministry look better after these last few weeks?”

“Weeks? It’s been nearly a year of this – attacks and threats and violence. And holding back isn’t getting us anywhere! But I don’t think it will do the public any good to see us questioning someone who fought back. We need answers, but I will be present for the questioning, and Auror Longbottom, you will not treat it as an interrogation. We need him to cooperate with the Ministry. When that is done, I believe Minister Minchum intends to award him the Order of Merlin, First Class for his actions in saving lives in Diagon Alley – and in Bexley. It will be good for the country – good for morale.”

“Good for Minister Minchum, perhaps” the _and you_ went unspoken, but everyone in the room heard it when Madam Zdenek objected, voice rising as she spoke. “But good for the people who will throw themselves into harm’s way thinking they can fight the Death Eaters? When they haven’t half the skill of Harry Neville, his age notwithstanding? People will get themselves killed through reckless stupidity! Or the people who may be hurt when overzealous citizens don’t follow due process and go after anyone and everyone they think might be a Death Eater? We can’t tell our people they’re invulnerable – and we can’t tell them they’re immune to justice. It’s not worth it, Barty!”

“If it means we take out the Death Eaters, it’s worth it. It’s worth every price we have to pay if we can get them back, fight fire with fire. It’s worth it if we win! If we win the war, then we will have the luxury of scruples. I will be concerned about the consequences when the country can afford it, and not a moment before.” His own voice had risen, though not to a shout, but the intensity and fury was overwhelming. Alice hardly dared breathe, caught in the midst of the argument once more.

The tension in the room felt like it would boil over any moment, that the next word would be too much, too far past the breaking point, and Alice didn’t want to be here when that happened. Frank, beside her, looked equally uncomfortable. Auror Bones seemed unperturbed, though Alice knew her well enough that she recognized the faint signs of disapproval under her impassive calm.

After a long silence, Crouch and Madam Zdenek’s eyes met, and something passed between them; a silent acknowledgement, perhaps, that this argument could wait. After the attack on Diagon, Alice knew everyone’s nerves were worn and frayed – hers included, and she was only a junior Auror. She couldn’t imagine the pressure the Director of Magical Law Enforcement and Head of the Auror Office were under.

“You intend to meet with Harry Neville?” Madam Zdenek asked, and Crouch nodded.

“As soon as possible. And once the official business is out of the way, Minister Minchum would like to be there as well – to offer his personal gratitude, and the Order of Merlin.”

“When?”

“Auror Longbottom?” Crouch asked.

Frank looked up. “I know he was injured; it will depend on his health.”

“Of course,” Crouch said. “If he is awake and up for conversation, I would prefer to get this done. Speak with Auror Moody, and let me know if he is available tonight. You’ve got an hour before my meeting with the Minister; I want a time before then.”

“Yes, sir,” Frank said.

“And once you’ve had your meeting?” Madam Zdenek asked.

“We’ll see how it goes,” Crouch replied. “And we’ll go from there. We’re doing the staffing changes at Azkaban this week, but once that’s done, I’ll meet with you about policy going forward on civilian involvement. If you have issues with my plan, I expect you to come with an alternative.”

“I will.”

The meeting ended there, as Crouch rather abruptly stood and left, with only the barest of nods to Auror Bones, Frank, and Alice.

“Well, back to work,” Madam Zdenek told them wryly, before turning to leave as well, saying over her shoulder, “Longbottom, you’d better go figure out the Harry Neville situation. And I want a report on it when Crouch gets one.”

Then it was just the three of them, heading back to the Auror Office. When they reached it, Auror Bones turned toward her desk, after a brief request for Alice to meet with her later.

“I’d better go and talk to Moody,” Frank said, and Alice looked at him intently until he turned to meet her gaze. “Or… _we’d_ better go talk to Moody?”

“I’m coming. I want to know how Harry’s doing. I know I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard enough about him from you that I know I want to. Well, if Moody doesn’t hex me for it.”

“He won’t hex you,” Frank said, though he didn’t sound convinced. Even less reassuring was the “probably” he muttered under his breath as they crossed to Moody’s office door.

Frank knocked, and Moody grunted something that might have been “come in.”

Frank pushed the door open, and Moody looked up. “Longbottom,” he said. “And… Longbottom. What do you need?”

Alice closed the door behind them.

“Director Crouch would like me to set up a meeting with Harry Neville for myself, him, and Minister Minchum as soon as possible. He will be taking Harry’s statement, and the Minister intends to present him with an Order of Merlin, First Class. And he wants to know if Harry wants to press charges against you for assault and kidnapping.” Frank’s request was straight to the point, but Alice could see the trouble he had keeping a straight face as he finished.

Moody snorted at the last sentence, and rolled his eyes. “He wants an excuse to go after the Auror Department – bring it more under his control, make some changes that he and Minchum have been pushing for since this whole damn thing began. I don’t think that’s going to work out for them,” he said sardonically, “but he’s welcome to try. Harry doesn’t seem like he’s going to be willing to roll over for them – the kid is way too damn stubborn.”

“Is he awake?” Frank asked.

“Yeah.” Moody grunted. “Why?”

“Director Crouch plans to meet with him tonight, if he’s up for it.”

“Hell of a way to turn 18,” Moody commented. His expression didn’t change. Alice narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean? It’s his birthday? I thought you didn’t know anything about him!”

“Well, I still don’t know his last name, but the first time I met him, he let slip it was on the 31st.” Moody said.

“Today’s the 31st,” Alice said. Moody just looked at her, face inscrutable, and said nothing.

“So, what, he’s going to spend his birthday shut up in your house recovering from a Death Eater attack, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Right place right time, I’d say, if you consider how many lives he helped save.” Moody commented.

“He’s not an Auror!” Alice was outraged now, and in the face of Moody’s apparent disregard, she had completely forgotten all of her past intimidation of her superior officer. “He shouldn’t have to! But that’s not the point.”

“There’s a point?” Moody grunted, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

“We’re coming over.”

“Excuse me?”

Frank, beside her, nodded in agreement. “You know he doesn’t have anyone else. But he does know us – and the people he worked with, if you think they’d want to be there for him. And if he has to spend his birthday meeting with Crouch and the Minister, we can at least make sure the rest of his evening is better than that.”

“Now wait just a damn minute,” Moody said. “I’m not throwing the kid a _birthday party_ – what am I, a babysitter? Is that what I look like to you?”

“Actually-“ Alice started, eyes lighting up with mischief, intimidation well and truly crushed by this conversation, but Frank interrupted before she could get herself into trouble.

“No, sir, you’re not throwing him a birthday party,” he said, then added just a little smugly, “but it looks like we are.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A chapter? I hardly believe my eyes.
> 
> Grad school's been a lot, but I was determined to get one more chapter up before November, so here it is! I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year, so I'll probably vanish for at least another month, but I've already got a pretty decent start on the next chapter, so hopefully once November ends I'll be back to updating pretty regularly (maybe even more often, since I'll be on Christmas break from school!)
> 
> As always, many thanks to Becky my beta reader, and to all of you, thanks for stopping in and reading! Leave me a comment down below if you want to let me know what you thought or just say hi. Your comments make my day! :)

When Frank and Alice left work that afternoon, they planned to head over to wish Harry a happy birthday. Moody had (begrudgingly) handed over his address, after extracting from Frank a solemn promise to burn it before anyone else had the chance to read it, and to share it with no one, not even Alice, unless absolutely necessary, was that understood? Frank had rolled his eyes at this typical bout of paranoia, to be met with the by-now well-worn refrain of “Constant Vigilance!” being shouted in his ear.

Alice stood by, doing an admirable job of wearing a straight face, but the moment they left, she burst into giggles. “So I suppose it’s a surprise, then? Where we’re going tonight?”

Frank laughed. “I think I’ll have to tell you where, and I think the circumstances do make it absolutely necessary – Moody would much rather you have it than the other guests. I think he just conveniently forgot the guests need an address to get there?” It sounded like something he would do, to get out of having more company. But he hadn’t argued against it. He must really like Harry – which was saying something, since he couldn’t usually stand dealing with teenagers. Frank had never seen him like this before. But then, Harry wasn’t exactly a typical teenager – and he and Moody seemed to have more in common than Frank would ever wish on a kid.

Frank and Alice stopped by Flourish and Blotts on his way to Moody’s house, apparating to Diagon Alley and walking down the street. Evidence of yesterday’s attack was everywhere, in the burnt walls and broken rubble and streaks of blood on the street. Frank reached out, putting his arm around Alice and drawing her closer; she leaned into him as they took a moment to gaze at the destruction. It looked different, a day later. Without the adrenaline of the fight, they could take it all in, and it was a stark contrast to the Diagon Alice had seen earlier in the week. The Alley was nearly deserted, and those who were there had hands gripping their wands as they rushed to their destinations. The shopkeepers in the Alley were repairing their buildings, putting in new windows to replace the shattered glass and trying to make order out of the chaos their shops had become during the fight. But even they were glancing over their shoulders to look nervously out the windows , doors locked tight against the rest of the world.

The Alley was hushed. Like the Ministry, the shocked grief was almost tangible; a heavy silence that hung in the air, darkening their moods and pressing down on them, a weight that couldn’t be shaken off. They hurried down the street side by side and pressing close, their heads turning and their eyes wary. They both knew there wouldn’t be another attack this soon; Voldemort had taken more losses than the Ministry, and they had no word of any preparations. But being out in the open now had them jumpy and cautious, and Alice was grateful when they reached the bookstore. Flourish and Blotts, unlike most of the shops, had an Open sign hanging in the window, and when Frank gently pushed open the door, the clerk sitting at the counter whipped her wand out to point at him before slowly lowering it down again.

“Sorry,” she said, face drawn and pale, eyes rimmed red with evidence of a sleepless night. “You here for Bernie?”

“She’s an Auror!” a hoarse voice said loudly, and Frank turned to see a small group of older folks gathered around a table under a window on the far side of one of the book aisles. “I saw her, yesterday, fighting them Death Eaters. Saved my life, she did! One of them was going for me, sure as anything, and that young lady blasted him clean off his feet!”

“You’re Aurors?” she asked, and her eyes flicked between them, suddenly wary. “Are you here about Harry?” Frank realized suddenly that two Aurors showing up to Diagon together looked a lot more like an official visit than it did a couple stopping by to see Harry Neville’s coworkers on a social visit.

“Sort of,” Frank said awkwardly. “I’m Frank Longbottom, I don’t know if you got the message that we might be stopping by?”

Her expression lightened a little, and she slipped around from behind the counter to close and bolt the door, flipping the sign to Closed. “Can’t be open right now without someone out front,” she said. The table of elderly patrons made no move to get up, and she didn’t seem to expect them to. “Come on – Bernie’s only just stepped in the back for a minute.”

She led them through the front of the shop and to a door at the back of the shelves. Pushing it open, she called out, “Bernie, there’s Aurors here! Frank Longbottom and-“ she stopped, and looked back at them.

“Alice,” Alice told her, adding as an afterthought, “Longbottom.”

“Frank and Alice Longbottom! They’re here ‘bout Harry!” Melissa shouted. She turned back to them, and jerked her head toward the door in a nod. “Come on through.”

The door led out into a storage room full of stacks of books, though they seemed to be in quite some disarray. Not surprising, after the events of this week. He’d be surprised if anyone who’d been in Diagon had been able to focus on work. He followed her into the back room just in time to see a lean, elderly man with greying hair emerge from an office tucked away in the back corner.

“Hello, Frank and Alice is it?” he said, holding out a hand for a firm shake. “I’m Bernie Blotts.” He offered them a warm smile. “You’re here about Harry? Can I ask if you know what happened? He ran out with Auror Moody when the fighting started, but we haven’t heard anything since.”

“He’s – well, not alright, exactly, but alive and recovering. He was injured in the fighting, and he’s currently staying with Auror Moody.” Alice told him.

“Actually, that’s why we’re here. Apparently, it’s his birthday today? And he’s still on bedrest – or should be. Though I heard he’s not too happy about that,” Frank added.

A soft scoffing sound came from the doorway where Melissa was still standing. “Tell him he’s an idiot,” she said. “And also happy birthday, I suppose.”

“Well actually, we had thought perhaps some company might help. Are you free tonight? Auror Moody is – well, a little paranoid about his address, but we’d be able to take you Side-Along if you were able to stop by. Just for a little celebration, nothing big,” Alice said.

“I’d be delighted,” Bernie said sincerely. “Melissa?”

She eyed them for a moment, weighing them, though against what, Frank couldn’t tell. “Yeah, I’m coming,” she said finally.

“Give me just a moment to wrap up something,” Bernie said, and headed out to the front of the shop. Melissa’s considering gaze still hadn’t left the Longbottoms.

“How do you know Harry?” she asked. “Because he’s pretty weird already, and now apparently he's secretly a badass dark-wizard fighter in addition to being a colossal dumbass? And if he’s friends enough with Auror Moody to stay with him while he recovers-” her emphasis on that name was enough to make it clear that Moody’s reputation had spread beyond the walls of the Ministry, “-well. He’s got weird, badass dark-wizard-fighting friends, too, but he doesn't make any _sense_.”

Alice giggled. Frank sighed. He hadn’t been expecting this candor from the bored-looking witch who’d worked the desk at Flourish and Blotts the last couple years. But he couldn’t really argue with anything she’d said – Harry Neville hadn’t made sense from the moment Frank met him.

“We met through the Bexley case,” Frank admitted. “I haven’t known him that long. And I think I was as surprised as anyone when he and Moody got on so well, and I’ve worked under Moody since I started as an Auror. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

He shifted and cleared his throat as he realized how much he’d shared with a near stranger, but at this point, Melissa probably knew Harry as well as anyone. And he was curious what she thought of all this – and after that introduction, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t hesitate to say. “What about you? You’ve worked with him long enough.”

She grimaced. “I thought he was suspicious as hell,” she admitted. “And we needed the summer help, but I wasn’t really interested in having someone working at the shop who looked like they were mixed up in some kind of shady business. I’m not entirely sure I was wrong about that – he had to learn how to fight like that _somewhere_ – but at least now I know he’s not out to rob the place or something.”

Frank was surprised at her words, and about to ask why she wanted to go to a birthday party for someone she didn’t like, but Alice spoke first. “But he grew on you.” There was a knowing glint in her eye. Frank was pretty sure he was missing something.

“Yeah,” Melissa admitted. “Then it turned out he’s probably more of a danger to himself than anything. Ugh.”

Alice snickered, and they exchanged a look of commiseration while Frank looked on in bemusement. Before he could figure out what they were talking about, Bernie came back, a package tucked under his arm.

“Well, shall we be off?”

“It’s a whole damn cavalcade,” Moody groused in lieu of a greeting. Alice had Side-Along apparated Melissa, while Frank took Bernie, and they’d appeared in a quiet suburban neighborhood, in front of a surprisingly normal-looking house. Melissa had been half-expecting a fortress, from all the rumors she’d heard about Auror Moody.

She bristled a little at his tone, and was about to bite off a scathing comment asking why he’d bothered to invite them if they weren’t welcome, when Frank, next to her, rolled his eyes and ignored him, moving into the house without so much as a by-your-leave. Taken a little aback, she hesitated, with a tentative glance at Auror Moody. He rolled his eyes up toward the sky and pushed on the door, holding it open.

The living room was neat and well-kept, with an old couch and a couple of armchairs set up around a low table. She could see past it to a small kitchen where a clean but battered kettle sat atop the stove. There were stairs off to the back of the room, and Moody stomped past her toward them as she followed Frank over to the chairs, Bernie and Alice behind her. She heard arguing voices upstairs that grew closer as she sank into a seat, unaccountably nervous now that she was here but determined not to show it.

Her nervousness largely vanished as she saw Moody emerge from the stairway with Harry slung over his shoulder, protesting the whole way. He cut off in surprise when he saw them, then renewed his efforts. “Put me _down_! I can walk!”

“You can’t stand up for ten seconds, I doubt you’ll be doing much walking.”

“I’m fine! It’s not my legs that are injured.”

“No,” Moody snapped back, “it’s your side, twice over, and a head injury, and you’re dosed up with potions-“

“And whose fault is that?” Harry winced as Moody deposited him on the couch.

“There. I’m not carrying you anymore. Stay _._ ”

“I’m not a _dog_ -“

“No, dogs are much less trouble than you are –“

Melissa stared. This was not what she’d expected from a nearly legendary Auror renowned for his standoffish eccentricity. Next to her, Bernie was stifling a smile, and Alice hadn’t bothered to hide her grin. Abruptly, she got up and moved over to the couch next to Harry. Moody headed for the kitchen, grumbling something uncomplimentary under his breath.

“Happy birthday, I suppose,” she said. “Your shoulder’s not injured, too, is it?”

Harry’s eyes were more unguarded than she’d ever seen them at the shop, openly surprised as he turned to look at her. “Is it? I’d lost track.”

Frank smiled over at him. “That’s why we’re here, Harry. Happy birthday!”

Harry looked bewildered, and Melissa turned a stare on him until he looked back at her.

“Oh, er- no, my shoulder’s fine. Why?”

He groaned a bit as she punched him in the shoulder. “You’re such an idiot! I can’t believe you! That might’ve been the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen someone do in my life!” Even as she said it, she found that she was suddenly unaccountably furious that he’d run off to fight Death Eaters, injured as he was – and that he’d done it before and never told them, even though she knew she had no reason to expect that he would have. Worse, she felt tears of frustration pricking at her eyes, and she forced them back angrily. She would not get emotional over her coworker – even if he was completely missing a sense of self-preservation.

Bernie, thankfully, saved her from further embarrassment, but the knowing glance he sent her meant it was only deferred until later. “Happy birthday, Harry,” he said. “I’ve brought something.” He set his present on the table, and Harry stared at it like he’d never seen a birthday present before. His confusion was almost endearing as he blinked slowly at the table.

“Happy birthday!” Frank and Alice echoed. Harry’s eyes drifted back over that way, and he shook himself, almost as if to shake off sleep, and she remembered Moody had said he was taking potions. He was doing a good job at hiding it, but she suspected he was a little out of it at the moment.

“Harry, it’s good to see you again. I’d like you to meet my wife, Alice.”

Alice beamed. “Hi, Harry! I’ve heard so much about you. It’s wonderful to finally meet you!”

She didn’t think anyone else noticed the slight flinch Harry gave at the name, but sitting next to him, she caught the brief flash of something in his eyes. He composed himself quickly, though, and smiled back, though his smile was tired. “It’s nice to meet you, Auror Longbottom,” he said quietly.

“Oh, just Alice, please!” she said, and his smile grew a little brighter. He shifted, leveraging his arm on the couch to push himself a little further upright, and a grunt of pain slipped out.

“Do you need help?” Melissa started to ask, as Frank made a motion as if to get up and Alice winced in sympathy. Bernie hadn’t said anything, and from the kitchen, Moody shouted, “You’d better not be getting off that couch!”

“I’m not!” Harry hollered back, and settled back, pain easing from his face.

“Oh, we’ve got your bag,” Melissa remembered, and Bernie reached into his pockets. He went through them one by one, intently, before letting out a little “ha!” of triumph as he pulled a shrunken bag out of his pocket, enlarging it as he tossed it over to her. She set it by Harry’s feet.

Moody came back in. “Kettle’s on.” He was carrying a chair, which he set down with a thump next to Harry’s side of the couch. He glanced at the table. “You planning to open that?”

“Oh!” Alice exclaimed. “We’ve brought something too.” Frank pulled a small package out of his pocket and placed it with the others. Melissa reached forward to grab them and pass them to Harry – she had a suspicion he wasn’t supposed to be leaning over, even if he would never admit it.

“You didn’t have to bring me something,” Harry said, looking flustered and lost for the first time in their acquaintance. Melissa wondered how much of her past suspicion of him was less because he was actually suspicious, and more due to the fact that apparently, he was one of the most awkward people she knew.

“Just open them,” she told him, trying her very best to look utterly disinterested. She was curious, though, especially when Moody dumped a small bag on top of the pile without a word. Frank looked delighted and seemed unfazed by the glare Moody levelled at him, silently daring him to comment.

Harry picked up Bernie’s gift – predictably book-shaped, Melissa thought – and carefully pulled at the wrapping, lifting off the tape and pulling away the paper. It turned out to be two books, stacked on top of each other. Harry slid the first one out, brand new and embossed letters shining on the cover in bright golden ink: _A New Revised Dictionary of Ancient Runes and Sigils._ The second one, beneath it, looked far more like a battered journal, and was bound in simple leather. The cover read, _A Field Guide for Cursebreaking._

“The reading of all good books is like conversation with the finest people of the past centuries,” Bernie said, sounding as if he was quoting something. “And it just isn’t right for you to work in a bookstore and not have more books of your own. Perhaps these will keep you occupied enough to go a few weeks without finding trouble,” he teased gently.

Harry’s eyes were suspiciously shiny, he knew, and he blinked hard, looking down at the books so he wouldn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes. After a moment, he looked up, setting the books gently aside on the arm of the couch. He pulled apart the paper, ripping the corner as his hand shook slightly. He fought back the frustration at his slow recovery.

It had never taken him this long to recover before, even after the Battle of Hogwarts. He hated how much his body was struggling now. Healer Blackburn had come by this morning, and Harry had let his frustration get the better of him, snapping at him and trying to push himself to be out of bed and moving. He knew that Hermione had taken much longer to recover than a couple days in the Hospital Wing after she’d been cursed by Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries, but somehow he’d always expected more of his own body – that if he was determined enough, he could just do what needed to be done.

Healer Blackburn had told him that there was nothing that needed to be done that couldn’t wait, and his only responsibility right now was getting better. And Harry had realized that nobody was expecting him to go out and keep fighting. No one was looking to him to fix things. The only thing he had to focus on was himself. But he did need to find a way to get home.

The one concession the Healer had allowed him was that he didn’t have to be dosed on potions and sleeping as much; he could spend as much time awake and reading as he wanted. As long as he stayed in bed and didn’t do anything reckless, Blackburn had added with a stern look. Harry had never been so eager to read, but at least he was allowed to do something.

And then Moody had told him about the meeting tonight. The Minister, the Aurors, everyone coming to see him, and he’d realized that maybe it wasn’t really over after all. Because they wouldn’t be coming if they didn’t want something from him, and this wasn’t his time, but if things had already changed, maybe he could make a difference. And for the better, this time. Because he couldn’t help but wonder - had he killed Scrimgeour? The question pounded through his head, over and over. He hadn’t cast the curse, but Scrimgeour had lived, before. If it was his fault, if he was responsible for all that went wrong in this timeline, then he was responsible too for making sure it came out alright in the end. But how could he explain that to Healer Blackburn – or Moody?

Since that realization, he’d once again become restless, and his unease all day had been apparent to Moody – who clearly suspected that the meeting was the cause. It wasn’t in Moody’s nature to comfort him or coddle him, and Harry appreciated that. But the man had been grumpier than usual since getting home from the Auror office, and it had manifested in a hyper-vigilance over Harry’s attempts at getting up, which he supposed was Moody’s way of showing he cared.

But he still had never expected all this. At first, he had thought Frank had come with the Minister, but they had been early. Then he’d been followed in by everyone else – Bernie, Melissa, and a woman who couldn’t possibly be anyone but Alice Longbottom. And they were here for his birthday, which he’d forgotten in all the chaos of the last week. And he hadn’t thought anyone would remember it, either – hadn’t realized that anyone even knew it, in this time.

His fingers had continued automatically unwrapping, even as he was lost in thought, and though his hands had shaken, they were steady enough to slide the present out of its wrapping without fear of dropping it.

Alice and Frank had gotten him a set of Gobstones and a set of wizard chessmen. _To keep you entertained, with best wishes for your recovery_ , the note read. He folded the note and set it aside with the books. “Thanks,” he said, heartfelt and sincere, and Alice beamed.

Then there was just Moody’s gift. It was a small drawstring bag made of dark cloth, soft to the touch. He picked it up, almost wary that it would be something alarming, but nothing happened as he tugged on the opening, loosening the string on the top. He tipped it into his lap, and his brow furrowed in confusion. Several small objects had fallen out – a narrow pendant on a chain, a rock, and a small silver knife. He picked them all up, rolling the rock around for a moment in his hand, and looked up at Moody.

“Er, thanks?” he said.

Frank and Alice were staring at Moody, Frank with open shock, eyes wide, and Alice with glee. Bernie’s eyes had gone soft and misty, and Melissa looked embarrassed on everyone’s behalf at all the blatant emotion in the room – and maybe a little like she was exasperated with Harry. “You have no idea what it is, do you?”

“Er,” Harry said again, not wanting to sound ungrateful but entirely at a loss.

“Emergency portkey,” Moody said brusquely, tapping the pendant meaningfully. “Straight to the house, designed to bring you past the wards. I’ll tell you the passcode later. Ritual knife,” he said, finger moving to tap on the silver handle, “and ward stone. I’ve got some nasty ones up, and they’re designed to detect intruders – and deal with them.” On those last words, his eyes sparked with gleeful satisfaction, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a slight and menacing smile. “There’s some spellwork we can do to key you into the wards so they recognize you, so you don’t get attacked every time you come and go.”

Harry looked at the objects with a new appreciation. It was very like Moody, he thought, to get him such a practical thing. But he didn’t understand why everyone was emotional until Frank spoke up. “It’s not just that.” Moody shifted around in his seat and was now glaring daggers at Frank, but he was unintimidated. “It’s – well, it’s not commonly done anymore, but it’s not something that’s used for guests or visitors on a whim. Most warding is smaller stuff, but major wards like these, that can recognize people and let them through, they’re complicated. And messing with them on and off to change the requirements has a big risk of destabilizing the wards. The magic can only take into account so many conditions without being more complicated – and harder to maintain.”

“So what, this is going to destabilize them? Put the house more at risk?” Harry asked, and moved to hand them back. “It might be a little inconvenient for you to be letting me in, but that’s still the better option here, right?”

“No,” Moody said, offering no further explanation. Harry thought if Moody had been looking at him the way he was looking at Frank now, he’d never want to risk working in the same building again. “It’s not a risk.”

“But you just said it was,” Harry persisted, looking at Frank, who shook his head.

“He ought to know what he’s accepting,” Frank said, and Moody grunted. It was hard to tell if it was in agreement or in resignation. Frank turned his gaze back to Harry. “The exception is that it’s easy to recognize residents, because the magic becomes familiar with them over time, or family, because of the connection between them. In this case, tying you to the wards like this is both – an invitation to move in, and a kind of unofficial magical adoption, where you’d be telling the wards the two of you are linked, so it should treat you in the same way.”

Harry looked at Moody with wide eyes, carefully avoiding looking at anyone else. Moody stared determinedly at the far wall. “Just makes sense,” he said gruffly, pointedly ignoring everyone else in the room. “If Death Eaters come around again – and if the Ministry shoves your name at the papers to try and get their publicity, they will – I don’t want my house blown up in the crossfire. Besides, you’re trouble, I know that already. It’s more hassle than it’s worth not to, that’s all,” Moody added, but he still didn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes.

Alice let out a soft noise that had Moody’s head whipping around to fix her with a stare. Undeterred, she grinned at him. “Your precautions are an inspiration to all of us, sir,” she said. “Constant vigilance.”

Harry turned red, embarrassment growing the longer the conversation continued.

“What was that, Longbottom?” Moody asked. “You need a refresher course on safety procedures?”

“I think it’s admirable,” Bernie said, and if possible, Harry’s face grew redder. He fixed his eyes determinedly on the floor. “And I’m glad things are working out for you, and Harry, that you’re doing better.”

“Well,” Melissa said after a pause, “I hope you’re not expecting me to give you a house key or a declaration of love or anything. Besides, you’ll have to wait to get your present from me until you’re allowed to stand up again,” She smirked at him.

“You don’t have to get me anything,” Harry argued.

“Well, obviously,” she shot back, rolling her eyes. “Do you want to hear what it is or not?”

“Er- okay.” Harry looked at her determined expression. Her studied apathy during all the time at the shop was clearly a façade she’d now let drop around him, but he remembered Hermione with that expression dragging them to the library or expounding on the merits of S.P.E.W. “What is it?” he asked warily.

“Since we’ve established that you’re not a crazy dark wizard criminal and you’re not planning to rob the store or something, you’re coming shopping with me.”

There was something to be said for Melissa’s bluntness, Harry thought wryly. It was refreshing not to have to tiptoe around the point – or the past. But he wasn’t sure if a shopping trip with Melissa sounded more like a present or a punishment.

A knock sounded on the door, and Alice got up. “That’s probably the Minister,” she said, and Harry suppressed a groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bernie's quote about reading is from Descartes.
> 
> See you next time!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo went great! But now I'm back to writing this thing, though this last chapter would not stop giving me fits. But it's done, at long last, so here you go!

Moody stumped towards the door when the knock came, and Alice rose from her chair. “I’d better not be here when they come in. Otherwise Frank might get pulled off this like you did, sir,” she told him. He felt his face pull in distaste at the reminder. She gave everyone a wave before ducking out the back door.

“You got pulled off the case?” Harry asked, looking up at him, and he nodded.

“For being too emotionally invested and having his objectivity compromised,” Frank said. “So when they come in, I wasn’t here for the party – I just happened to be early.”

Melissa and Bernie nodded their agreement, and he straightened, arranging his face to look much more formal than the relaxed, friendly attitude he’d had all evening. Alice slipped quietly out the back door, as Moody made his way to the front one, banishing his chair back to the kitchen as he went.

He pulled the door open with his left hand, the wand in his right hand already pointed through the opening and a menacing look on his face that only partially disappeared when he was presumably satisfied of the identity of the people on the other side.

“Director. Minister.” He grunted an acknowledgement and stepped back, allowing two figures to enter. Harry recognized one of them, the tall, lean figure of Barty Crouch a familiar sight, and though he looked disconcertingly young, his face was no less stern, and the first early appearances of lines on his face were tracing where the older Barty Crouch had his cares carved into his face as deeply as if from sculpted stone.

The figure that followed behind him was an older man of middling height, a trim figure in neat blue robes. He looked tired and careworn, but his brown and graying hair was cut neat and short, and he stood with a straight and upright posture. His business-like appearance was softened slightly by his friendly smile as he walked into the room. Harry couldn’t tell if he was actually happy to be here or, as the more cynical side of him said, he was used to having to work a crowd for his approval rating.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting a crowd,” he said pleasantly. “Hello, everyone. I’m sorry to disturb your evening.”

“Hello, Minister Minchum,” Frank said. “Sir.” he added, directed at Crouch. “I think we’ve interrupted a birthday party.”

Harry thought Crouch didn’t look like he cared, but he was putting on a polite face in front of all these other people. The Minister didn’t resemble Fudge, although he thought with a pang of guilt and grief that he did resemble Scrimgeour, a little. They’d both been Ministers in a time of war, and Harry thought perhaps that made them harder and more calculating than they would have otherwise been. And after the war, seeing Kingsley begin to pull things together again, Harry thought it gave him a little more respect for the position they were in, trying to do their best. But it didn’t mean he liked their politics and maneuvering.

“Harry, this is Mr. Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Harold Minchum, the Minister for Magic. Director Crouch, Minister Meachum, this is Harry Neville.”

Alice’s quick departure had reminded him of Lupin and Tonks, hurrying out of the Burrow when they heard the Minister was dropping by. It had left Harry with a bad taste in his mouth. This was more of the same; careful decisions to avoid getting on the wrong side of the Ministry, but he knew he couldn’t afford to mess this up. Not when technically, he didn’t even exist. “Hello,” he offered, but said nothing more.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Neville, to meet the young man who saved so many lives, both in Bexley and more recently in Diagon Alley,” the Minister said, and to his credit, it seemed that perhaps it actually was. But there was as much calculation in his eyes as respect.

“Mr. Neville,” Crouch said, with perfunctory politeness. “We’d like to speak to you about your recent actions in Diagon Alley. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“We can talk here, if you don’t mind-?” Harry offered, with a quick glance at Moody. “If it won’t take long.” _The Healers said I’m not supposed to be up too long anyway,_ he thought silently, _and Moody will probably hex me if I don’t take my potions soon._ But he wouldn’t say that in front of Crouch and the Minister.

Harry levered himself up so he was sitting up straight, biting back a grunt of pain. His face tightened a little, but otherwise he didn’t let his discomfort show. He could feel Moody’s disapproving gaze, but the man must have understood, because he didn’t jump in to say anything – or worse, to haul him around again like a sack of potatoes. Frank’s face was worried, and his hands jerked at his sides as he kept himself from reaching out to steady Harry. Harry was grateful for that. If he was going to have to deal with politics, he wasn’t going to appear a helpless invalid – and he wasn’t going to be treated like a child.

“Thanks- for coming over, and for everything,” he said to Bernie and Melissa. Bernie had stood when he did.

“Of course,” he said. “We’ll see you soon – but you’re not coming into work until I hear from your healer or from Auror Moody that you’re cleared for it.”

Melissa rose from the couch, and paused a moment, like she wasn’t sure what to say. Then she shrugged a little. “See you around, then,” she said. “Don’t do anything stupid before you’re better, or I’ll have to handle all the Hogwarts books on my own.”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want that,” Harry said, grinning.

She gave a half-smile back. “You’re alright, I guess,” she said, and turned and headed out the door.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Bernie said, and then he was gone.

After a tense silence, in which Crouch and Moody eyed each other with a healthy dose of suspicion, Moody grunted and turned toward the stairs. He left them standing in awkward silence for a moment, before he came back down with Harry’s potions. He set them down on the table by the couch with a _thunk_. “Right then,” he said. “Longbottom, lock up the house when you go. I’ll be back later, after your chat.”

Frank pulled over the chairs that Bernie and Moody had been using pulling out his wand to conjure up one more seat. Harry moved to pick up his painkiller, but when he reached out his arm, his side twisted, and he gasped quietly, vision whiting out for a moment while black spots danced before his eyes. He dragged in a ragged breath, trying not to cry out in pain, and bent over. A hand caught his arm, and his the grip held him up until his vision cleared and he could see that it was Frank, standing behind him, who was supporting him.

“Alright, Harry?” he asked, and Harry nodded, letting his breath even out. He let Frank ease him back onto the couch, leaning on his supporting arm so he didn’t strain his side. At Frank’s pointed look, he decided it wasn’t worth the argument, and let him hand him the potion, which he downed in one swift gulp.. _At least,_ he thought, clinging to the shreds of his dignity, _he wouldn’t have to have this conversation lying down._

Minister Minchum looked concerned, and even Crouch’s eyes had jumped down to his side with something almost like worry. It made him look surprisingly human.

“We appreciate your willingness to meet with us today, Mr. Neville,” the Minister said, “but are you quite sure you’re well enough?”

“I’m –“ _fine,_ Harry started to say, before he stopped himself. They’d all just had a demonstration of how much he wasn’t fine. “-sure.”

“Before we talk, there are a couple small matters that we need to discuss with you,” the Minister said. “Mr. Crouch, if you would?”

Crouch leaned forward, eyes intent. “Mr. Neville, it is my understanding that after the fighting, Auror Moody hexed you from behind and brought you forcibly to his house. Are you being held here against your will, and do you wish to press charges for assault and kidnapping? You would be well within your rights to do so.”

Harry stared at him, dumbfounded. The Minister’s eyebrows went up as he seemed to realize that thought had never crossed Harry’s mind. “Er- no. It’s fine,” Harry said. “I should’ve expected it, probably.”

“Mr. Neville,” the Minister said, now looking rather concerned. “I understand that Auror Moody is… eccentric,” his mouth twisted a little as he said it, and Harry thought he might’ve been thinking something else but was too professional to say. “But you are not responsible for anticipating his behavior. He has already been reprimanded, but are you sure you don’t want to press charges?”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “I don’t.”

“Very well,” Crouch said. “We also need to speak about your recent actions. Aurors Moody and Longbottom spoke to you after the Bexley incident, I understand, and you said you were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or perhaps, for the victims of that attack, the right place at the right time?”

“Yes,” Harry said slowly, not sure where this was going.

“And the attack on Diagon Alley, fighting the Death Eaters there. How did you come to be involved?”

“I work at Flourish and Blotts,” Harry said. “I was there when the Death Eaters showed up and started cursing people.”

“And, I believe, ran from Flourish and Blotts and into the fight? Why did you leave the shop?”

“We heard screaming,” Harry said, a little annoyed. “I went to go see what was happening, and if they were attacking us, I wasn’t going to just let them curse me.”

“Of course,” Crouch said. “And the Ministry does not disagree. However, I do wish to impress upon you that while self-defense, and the defense of others, is admirable, should you cross the line into vigilante justice, you will be prosecuted for your actions. You have found yourself in these situations twice now, Mr. Neville. I advise that you do not go looking for a third.”

“I wasn’t _looking_ for the first two!” Harry’s voice rose a little, growing sharper. “But I wasn’t just going to stand there and watch, either!”

“A commendable stance, Mr. Neville,” the Minister said smoothly, taking over the conversation. Crouch sat back in his chair. “And one for which we would like to award you. An Order of Merlin, First Class. Your services to your country and to your fellow citizens were exceptionally brave, and you saved many lives with your actions.”

Harry was caught off guard, and his mouth dropped open. “Are you joking?” came out of his mouth before he could stop it. Frank’s face stayed blank, but his eyes laughed at Harry’s words.

The Minister gave a small smile. “No, Mr. Neville, we’re quite serious. And there is one other matter as well. I’ve been informed that your name is not Harry Neville, that you’ve been living under an alias and refused to tell the Aurors why. Is that correct, Auror Longbottom?”

“Yes, sir,” Frank said, but when the Minister turned back to Harry again, he gave Harry an apologetic glance.

“Usually, this would be a matter for more concern,” the Minister said. “However, in light of your recent actions, the Ministry, and our Aurors, are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt – and a fresh start, if you will. I know that Auror Moody has been trying to push through some documentation for you. We can help with that.”

At that, Crouch looked like he’d bitten into a lemon, but he said nothing. Harry got the feeling Crouch would’ve rather hauled him in for questioning as a suspicious character. But he wondered why they weren’t doing that, because even he had to admit that he’d been acting pretty suspiciously since he got to the past, no matter how hard he tried to fit in and keep his head down. Abruptly, he remembered Scrimgeour’s visit, and the plea for him to be good publicity for the Ministry. Along with the now familiar pang of guilt that came when he thought of Scrimgeour came a wave of distrust. “And what do you get?” he asked. Even he was surprised at how cynical the words came out.

“Not us, Mr. Neville. But people are scared. For them to know that it’s possible to defend themselves, that self-defense in the face of these terrorists is both possible and legal, and that the country, united behind the efforts of the Ministry and our Aurors, can put the Death Eaters on the retreat and give us the advantage. Isn’t that a message you’d want to send? A message of hope?”

The passion in his voice was clear; Harry believed that he actually believed it would work. Harry wasn’t convinced.

“Thanks, but no. I don’t want an award. I don’t want all that. I just want to get back to work.”

“Mr. Neville,” the Minister said, “we are in dark and difficult times. I know we’re asking you to put yourself in the sights of Death Eaters by doing this, but rest assured, we can offer you protection if you feel you will be in danger because of this.”

“It’s not that. But I’m not some kind of hero,” Harry said. “Giving me an award and telling everyone how great it is to fight back isn’t going to stop Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and it’s not going to keep people from getting killed. And I’m already a target, probably, after everything, but I don’t want protection. I just want to go back to my life.” He didn’t realize how true it was until he said it, but he ached with the longing for home, to go back to his life, his time, in a world where Voldemort was dead and his friends were alive and he had a future waiting for him. An Order of Merlin was a big deal, and he was sure it would mess up the timeline even more. He needed to be blending in, not standing out.

“And the rest of it?” the Minister asked. “If you’re in some kind of trouble from your past, we’re willing to wipe the slate clean, based on your actions these last few weeks. But you do need to have a legal identity, or I’m afraid you’ll run into trouble with the Ministry one of these days.”

Harry grimaced. He was probably more conspicuous without any kind of identity than with it, but he still had no idea how to explain where he’d come from – and he definitely wasn’t planning to tell the Ministry. “Does it really matter who I was?” he asked. He looked from the Minister to Crouch to Frank, but while Frank looked apologetic, he agreed with the Minister.

“If you’re running from something, you can get help,” he said. “But you can’t live your whole life under an alias.”

“Under your name now, you have no papers, no records, no exam scores, and no qualifications. You cannot get an Apparition license, and you have no credentials with which to apply for work, since you have given no name, no address, and no educational history.” Crouch said. “We are offering to allow you to set all your records straight – and forgive any past misconduct.”

“You’re offering to have me tell you everything you couldn’t find out on your own,” Harry said, and Crouch’s eyes narrowed as he met Harry’s glare. “I’m not dragging up my past – it doesn’t matter, and I can’t go back to being who I was, anyway. I’ll be officially Harry Neville, but that’s it – if I have to get records and qualifications the hard way, that’s fine.”

The Minister met Harry’s glare with equanimity. “Very well,” he said. “But I still believe we can help you there – although you may not thank me for it,” he said with wry humor. “We can set you up to take your OWLs – and NEWTs, if you like, though you’d have to pass your OWLs first. And we’ll put you down as Harry Neville – officially.”

Harry let his glare fall, and took that as the peace offering it was. “Thanks,” he said, relieved the Minister wasn’t going to push the issue.

“I know you said you don’t want an Order of Merlin,” the Minister said. “But it really is a great honor. Take some time – think about it. We don’t need an answer now.” He offered a hand. “In any case, thank you, Mr. Neville, for your actions in Bexley and in Diagon Alley. I’m glad we got to meet. And I wish you a speedy recovery – and a very happy birthday.” Harry shook his hand, and he stood. Mr. Crouch stood as well, and offered a nod in farewell.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Frank said, giving him a warm smile.

“See you,” Harry replied. They left by the front door, but Frank hung back a moment longer. He handed Harry his last potion, and Harry took it, feeling drowsiness come over him in a rush. As his eyes closed, Harry saw Frank raise his wand again, and Harry saw the locks fall into place, and a slight shimmer that must have been the wards wash over the house. Then he was asleep again, and Frank was gone.

The meeting was set up for evening. They wouldn’t meet in Diagon, no one was comfortable there right now, but in a nicer restaurant in muggle London. No one there would be notice their wards against listeners, but there would be enough people around to make sure neither of them were quietly disappeared.

Marlene arrived early, hoping to scope out the restaurant and make sure there weren’t any unexpected guests. Storm must have had the same thought because he was already being shown by a waiter to the table they’d arranged for. They gave each other rueful smiles that didn’t reach their eyes, and sat.

“Drinks?” Marlene asked. She wore her muggle makeup again today, and she could see the slight shimmer that indicated Storm was disguised by magic.

“No, thank you,” he replied, and she let a smirk dance over her face.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I’d trust you more if I had a name.”

“Well… Storm,” she said, drawing out his code name in a long drawl. “I suppose I could be Shadow.” She saw the slight twitch that he tried to suppress. She wasn’t supposed to know the code names of his associates, let alone know they all started with ‘s’. It could be a coincidence of course, that she chose an ‘s’ name, but now he wasn’t sure how much she knew about their operation. She preferred it that way.

“Shadow, then,” he said, recovering his composure with remarkable aplomb. The smile he offered her was sharp and wary. “Perhaps we should get drinks after all.”

When the waiter stopped by, they ordered wine. To the restaurant, they looked like a couple out for a nice dinner, though neither wore their own face.

They sat in silence while they waited, neither wanting to start a conversation that would be interrupted by the appearance of the waiter. When he arrived, he left them the bottle, and Storm raised his glass. “A toast, to new… friends?” he said drily, and Marlene laughed.

“To business partners,” she suggested, and their glasses touched. Marlene felt a tingle from a wash of magic, and she sent out her own silent nonverbal spell as well. Their eyes met, both aware that the other had just tested the glass for poison.

“Well, now that’s out of the way,” Marlene commented sardonically, and surprised him into a snort of laughter. They both relaxed a hair, and Storm grinned.

“At least we make for interesting company.”

“So what can I do for you?” Marlene asked.

“Why don’t you tell me what I want,” he said, eyeing her over the rim of his glass. “Consider this your… audition, if you will.”

She leaned back in her own seat, twirling her wine glass slowly between her hands and watching it turn as she considered what to say. “You need me to move something,” she began. “Something the Aurors wouldn’t approve of – quietly.”

He sighed. “Disappointing,” he said. “I’d expected more than that.”

“I’m not done,” she said sharply, and he gave her a challenging look.

“Go on, then.”

“You already had a buyer,” she added. “You don’t look for things of that sort without knowing where it’s headed – or at the least, you already had someone like me. But not as good, or you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

He smirked at her confidence, but he didn’t interrupt.

Now she leaned in a little, wondering how much else she could reasonably know. How much could she tell him, without giving herself away? “You don’t deal with your buyers directly,” she said, confident in that, “or – again – you wouldn’t need me. But there was a problem there, and you don’t want to work with them anymore.” She took a gamble. “Possibly because of the trouble they’re in with the Ministry after what they did at Diagon.”

His hand slid to his wand, and it was trained on her under the table. He was tense, now, and she acted unconcerned, keeping her body loose and resisting the urge to move her hand to her own wand in return. “How do you know that?” he asked, smile disappearing into a mistrustful glare and all the light friendliness gone from his voice.

She let herself smile, slowly, deliberately, and relaxed even further. “You don’t get very far in my kind of job without contacts – especially as an independent operation. Did you think I wouldn’t go looking before I came here today? You’re here because I am very good at what I do.”

“And if we don’t make a deal, you turn around and hand that over to the highest bidder?” he asked harshly.

“I sell goods, Storm,” she said deliberately. “Not information. Some things are worth more when they’re kept to yourself – and I am a professional.”

He relaxed, and slipped his wand away again. “Well, then. I think I’m curious, now. What else do you know that you shouldn’t?”

Inwardly, Marlene let out a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been sure how that would fall out, but it looked like her chance had paid off. Outwardly, she shrugged. “Just the details of the job, which you were going to be telling me anyway. Historical artifacts, some dark, that you can’t sell here without endangering your business because there’s a chance any buyer might be caught up with the Dark Lord – and they might be followed back to you. You’re looking for international buyers, which led you to me. Is that about right?”

“Well, I’m not sure I even need to make the offer,” he said. “Apparently, you already know what I’m going to say.”

“I know what you want, but I don’t know your terms,” she replied. “I’m well-informed, not omniscient.”

“Alright then,” he said. “My offer. You find buyers, or get our goods to the ones we’ve found without any trouble, you get six percent of our asking price. If you bring attention down on us, you get three, since we’ll have to lay low until it passes, and that will cut into our profits.”

“Ten, at least,” Marlene said. “And no cut profits. You just trust me to do my job.”

“Six,” he replied, “and five if things go bad.”

“Eight percent. If things go wrong, I make sure the fallout doesn’t go your way. I lay low a while, your operation keeps running.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, and held out a hand. When she took it, instead of shaking it, he brought it to his lips with a smile, kissing the air above her fingers. “Truly a pleasure doing business with you, Artis,” he said. “Or do you prefer Shadow after all?”

Marlene was taken aback for only a second by hearing her usual alias before she laughed. “Well, it looks like you already knew who I was after all,” she said. “Artis is fine.”

“Well then, Artis,” he said. “We have a deal. We have a buyer in France for some of our merchandise, and it needs to be delivered. The details,” he said, and slid a piece of paper across the table to her. “When you’re ready for another job, you know how to reach me.”

“Until next time, then,” she said. He offered her an arm. She took it, and they left the restaurant together before they apparated with two sharp cracks. They landed on a hill in the countryside outside of London, and then split up, apparating away to their own destinations.

“I’m in,” she said when she landed, giddy with her success. She looked up into the relieved, smiling face of Albus Dumbledore.

“Well done,” he said.

When Moody came into the order meeting that night, James eyed him with interest. He knew Harry Neville was staying at Moody’s place, now. Even Moody’s dark mutters about Ministry noses stuck in his business and politicians and their publicity stunts didn’t curb his curiosity. The meeting hadn’t started yet, so Moody headed straight to the back room, then came out again and went toward the stairs.

Sirius leaned over toward James. “Wait for it,” he muttered, grinning, and Remus rolled his eyes.

“Three… two… one…” Sirius counted under his breath, and then suddenly arguing voices were audible, and Edgar and Moody came down the stairs together.

“Do we have to go through this every time?” Edgar asked, exasperated. “My house is warded, Moody. It’s secure. You don’t have to go poking through every room, bothering my family, every time you arrive. Especially not if I’m here, and fine, and have been home for hours.”

“Constant Vigilance, Bones!” Moody barked. “Wards can fail. Security can leak. People can be imposters!” His wand swung around to Edgar as he narrowed his eyes. “And keeping me from checking is exactly what a Death Eater would do. Bones, the last time I saw you, what were you wearing?”

“Damn it, Moody, I don’t remember that kind of thing!” Edgar snapped, then heaved a sigh and humored him. “It was the last meeting… I had on my work robes, even though it was evening, because I’d been in late at the office that day. Happy?”

“No,” Moody grouched back, “because if you’re not a Death Eater trying to get me to drop my guard, then you really are that careless. Constant Vigilance, Bones!” he barked, and half the room jumped at his sudden raised voice.

“Must he?” Lily asked, slipping into the seat beside James as she came back from the loo. James turned and draped an arm around her shoulders, grinning broadly at her.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, apropos of nothing, and she blushed and swatted at his shoulder. Behind him, Sirius pretended to gag loudly, and Peter snorted out a laugh.

“Gits,” James muttered, but he was smiling.

“Hey, Moody, how’s Neville?” Sirius shouted over to him, and Moody pinned him with a glare that could have curled hippogriff feathers.

“You’ll hear it when everyone else does, Black, at the meeting, and not a moment before.”

Sirius was unfazed. “Didn’t think you’d ever let someone into your place, let alone have them live there.”

“Save it for the meeting, Black,” Moody snapped again, and his glare darkened.

Remus nudged Sirius. “Leave it, Sirius,” he said. “Moody looks ready to bite your head off.”

Sirius turned to argue with a grin on his face, but he let it go when he saw the way Remus leaned back in his chair, eyes heavy with exhaustion and body slumped. “Alright there Moony?” he asked more quietly.

“Yeah,” Remus said. “Long night.” His eyes drifted halfway shut.

James felt his lips turn down and he traced his eyes over Remus’ form, checking him over for injuries.

“I’m fine, James,” Remus said. He opened his eyes and shot James a tired, teasing grin. “And you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

He sat up with only a small groan when the door opened again, and James looked over to see Professor Dumbledore and Marlene came in together. “Looks like we’re starting,” he said.

The meeting was long, and the Order talked in circles, going over and over the attack on Diagon. What could they have done to stop it? To get there sooner? To do better? After a little while, James’ mind began to drift, running in circles, running over the fight in his mind. He saw the scene over and over – the Aurors, the Order, the Death Eaters. He’d thought he was a good duelist – he and Sirius both. But they had been caught up in a storm of magic, Dumbledore, the Head Auror, the Fiendfyre from Sirius’ mad cousin – and it had been unlike anything he’d ever imagined.

And for all that he had pictured them running in as heroes, fighting back against dark wizards to protect people, he’d never imagined the blood and the screams and the panic. The look on the face of a dying man that James hardly noticed at the time, adrenaline rushing through him, all his focus on getting off the next spell and not getting hit in return. But when it was over, then he had looked, the adrenaline fading into weariness and the fervor into horror. Moody had disappeared with Neville, but James had taken Benjy Fenwick to St. Mungo’s, unconscious and bleeding, and heard that he might not wake.

Lily’s shoulder brushed his as she leaned in, and her hand slid into his hand, fingers twining together. “James?” she said softly. With the conversation going, no one could hear her but him.

“Yeah,” he said, and was surprised at how hoarse his voice came out of his throat. He swallowed, and tried again. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

She squeezed his hand gently, and then rested their joined hands on his leg. He squeezed back.

The door opened again, and conversation cut off briefly as Frank came in. “Minister’s gone,” he told Moody tiredly, and then headed over to where Alice sat and found a chair. “Harry did good. And by the way, he’s not pressing kidnapping charges, despite how good an idea Crouch seemed to think it was.”

In the now-quiet room, his voice carried, and the two of them were suddenly the focus of a room of curious people.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said, peering over his spectacles, “this would be a good time for you to update us on young Mr. Neville.”

“Not much to say,” Moody replied. “Next question.”

“Alastor-“ Dumbledore said, “he’s staying in your house.”

Moody’s eyes narrowed. “I’m listed as his emergency contact, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Even if he did, I don’t think I have all that much faith in his ability to do it without getting himself killed. And there’s too much he’s not telling us. Maybe now we’ll find out what.”

“You’re letting him sleep in your house because you don’t trust him? After you hexed him because he wasn’t taking care of himself?” The words came out of James’ mouth before he could think about it. Beside him, Sirius snickered into his hand. Lily reached over James to sock Sirius on the arm.

“He doesn’t want to talk about his past, but the Ministry wants to turn him into a figurehead. Longbottom said he didn’t agree. There’s no new developments,” Moody said shortly.

“Except the part where he adopted a kid,” Peter mumbled under his breath.

Moody’s glare said that he hadn’t said it quietly enough. “This isn’t what we need to talk about. After Diagon, people are scared. I know we’ve been shaken by this – we lost people. And we couldn’t save others, and we still don’t have a plan to hit back.”

“Hit back? At whom?” Dumbledore asked, shaking his head. “We don’t have a target. Voldemort is in hiding, and his followers hide their faces.

“Maybe,” Moody said darkly, “But I bet I could give you a few names.”

Dumbledore’s voice rose as he responded, voice sharper than James had ever heard it before. “If we go on the offensive, we become just as bad as them, in the eyes of the public. And we would lose our purpose. This Order was founded to protect people, not to turn into a military force –“

“You’re wrong, Albus,” Moody interrupted. “Hunting down these bastards _is_ protecting people. Otherwise, they’re always one step ahead, and we’re just sitting here waiting to pick up the pieces.”

“This is a conversation for later,” Dumbledore said, and his eyes met Moody’s. Something passed between them that James didn’t understand, and Moody gave a jerk of his head in assent.

“We lost people, this week,” Dumbledore said, and his voice resonated through the room. James sat up a little straighter, feeling the power in the Headmaster’s voice as he spoke. “Not in the Order, but people in Diagon, and one of our Aurors, dedicated to protecting the wizarding world. And I know that weighs on you – on all of us.” Even as he spoke, James could see it. In school, Dumbledore had always been eccentric, but enthusiastic, patient – even fun. But now, the Headmaster looked more tired than James had ever seen him before.

“It may not feel like we won that battle, when we focus on all those we couldn’t save. And there will be more battles before this is over, and we will lose more people – good people – in the fight against evil. And at times, that weight becomes too heavy to bear. But every person that is alive because we fought, every person that has hope because someone stood up to Voldemort, at their own personal risk, for no gain except that of doing the right thing? Those are our victories. And we cannot stop fighting for them. This may be a long fight, but if there is always one more person who stands up to evil, who says no - here I draw the line, and I will not stand by and watch this happen – then we will not have lost. We will not forget those who died. It is for them that we must keep fighting. Not for vengeance, but so that what happened to them is never allowed to happen again. “

“None of you are here because it is your job to be, or because you have no choice but to fight back. You have volunteered for this, to stand up against Voldemort and his Death Eaters and to put your lives on the line for the sake of others. Whatever your reasons, whatever your convictions – hold onto them.” Dumbledore’s back was straight, his voice strong, and his eyes swept the room, and looked at each person. When he met James’ eyes, it felt like he saw right into his soul. “Hold onto that,” Dumbledore said, voice soft and fierce, “and remember what we’re fighting for.”

After that, there was little left to say. The room was quiet, and Dumbledore let his words hang in the air for a moment. Then he stood. “Well,” he said, “It’s been a long week, for all of us. I think anything else can wait. I wish everyone a very good night.”

He looked over at Marlene, and she nodded to his unspoken question and stood, saying her goodbyes.

“Wonder what she’s up to,” Sirius mused, staring after her.

James shrugged. “We’ll know when we need to, I guess.” The goodbyes that night were subdued, and James could still feel the exhaustion and heartache from the week weighing on him. But Dumbledore was right. They had made a difference, and he knew what he was fighting for. And he left the meeting just a little more hopeful than he had been before. Lily was by his side, and his friends were here, and they were alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all so much for reading, and give me a shout in the comments with your thoughts - it'd make my day. See you next time!


	13. Chapter 13

Harry was grateful that the first thing Moody had done after the Minister’s visit had been to bring him the paperwork to establish an official record of identity. Since his first, impulsive decision, it had felt strange to be using Neville’s name. There was still the problem of schooling records – of which he had none – and his missing Apparition license, which had earned him a promise of being Side-Along Apparated until he could pass his test – but on the whole, existing on paper would make things much easier.

But everyone who knew Harry’s name at all had known it was fake, by that point, so it had been only a matter of filling out the form for him to choose what name he would use. Maybe it was sentimental, but he didn’t want to give up every connection to home. This time, he had given it a little more thought. Harry Potter was out of the question – it would draw far too much attention, and it was much too easy to prove it a lie. Harry Evans could raise flags with the Order and give away more than he wanted if his secrets started to come to light. And the other family connection he knew he could claim, the Peverells, were a famous wizarding family with an extinct family line. If he claimed their name, it wasn’t just the Order who would be paying attention. He didn’t need to be in any society papers or tabloids. At least, he thought ruefully, not more than he would be already.

Not even a week had passed since the meeting with the Minister before Harry was ready to go back to work. A few more days of recovery had seen him up on his feet and moving without too much pain, but he was still strictly forbidden from any major exertion. Healer Blackburn had come in again to check on his injuries, and while he had reluctantly given Harry permission to return to work, that permission had come with a few caveats.

“If you insist on returning to work, you are not to be bending and lifting anything. You may not carry anything heavy. You will check on your bandages every morning and afternoon, and if any of your wounds open, you will be done working for the day. If you are tired or in pain, you will take a break, not try and tough it out. Understood?” When Harry agreed, Healer Blackburn had paused, and then sighed. “I feel I shouldn’t even have to say it, but you are also not to get involved in any duels, altercations, or other overly stressful situations. Don’t get cursed again, and don’t do anything strenuous, at least not until you’ve healed from last time.”

Besides those restrictions, Harry couldn’t even apparate himself into work. Just as he had threatened, Moody Side-Along Apparated him in, and told Bernie and Melissa to apparate him home or make sure he waited for Moody’s escort. Harry vowed to himself to take his apparition test as soon as he could. Being carted around like a child or a package was already getting old. Harry’s first morning back, he also told them, loudly and pointedly, Harry’s entire list of restrictions and requirements for returning to work. Harry’s scowl did not dissuade him, and while Bernie listened seriously and promised to look out for Harry, Melissa listened with poorly concealed entertainment written all over her face. Finally, Moody left.

The article was waiting for him, taped up on the door to the back room. He read it over, and his face must have reflected some of his feelings on the matter, because Melissa was snickering quietly from the desk behind him. They had at least found out the name he had chosen a few days before, and the one that was now a matter of public record.

**HARRY IGNOTUS, HERO OF BEXLEY AND DIAGON ALLEY, TURNS DOWN ORDER OF MERLIN**

_Elizabeth Maxwell and Duncan Iglacia, Senior Correspondents_

We at the _Daily Prophet_ have discovered the identity of the young man who fought alongside Auror Moody in Diagon Alley, saving countless lives and standing up for justice in the wizarding world. This hero is none other than seventeen-year-old Harry Ignotus, the previously unnamed Hero of Bexley. He was treated for injuries following both occasions but is now recovering at an unknown location. The Minister visited, and Harry Ignotus was awarded an Order of Merlin for his actions. In a shocking turn of events, Ignotus turned it down. Sources report that he is employed at Flourish and Blotts and was working when the attack on Diagon began. Abandoning the safety of the bookstore, he rushed out to the defense of the shoppers and businesspeople in the Alley, despite the injuries he had sustained defending a family in Bexley when they were cornered by Death Eaters (the _Daily Prophet_ will not be naming the family, for their own safety). We at the _Daily Prophet_ would like to extend our gratitude to Mr. Ignotus for his swift and decisive actions, and we congratulate him on the offer of an Order of Merlin, despite his humble refusal of this highest of honors.

If Harry had expected to be able to go back to work as if nothing had happened, he was wrong. He spent most of his first morning back fielding worried looks from Bernie and pointedly disapproving ones from Melissa whenever he lifted his arm to stock a book or couldn’t hold back a wince of pain. Her looks were sometimes accompanied by comments about whether he should really be picking up a book, whether he intended to hide behind the shelves all day, and if he was going to run off at any minute - if so could he lock up on the way out this time? Since they had opened that morning, he’d been doing his best to dodge the curious looks and conversation of their customers with conveniently placed bookshelves and trips to the backroom. The _Prophet_ had outed his workplace, and not everyone coming in today was a customer. He’d gotten used to being anonymous since he came back to this time, and the stares and whispers were unpleasantly familiar.

Harry mostly responded to this by ducking away from her, too – at least, as much as he could. She was working the desk, and he was mostly restocking – though it was the Hogwarts books that ran out most often, and that display was front and center in the bookstore. Bernie and Melissa watched with eagle eyes and if he dared lift a book by hand instead of using a spell, he was beset by glares and quietly cleared throats. Restocking it had become the least welcome part of his day very quickly. The books disappeared from the display when it was busy, and every time he had to come up to the front of the store the customers would gawk, and he would try to act like he didn’t notice them staring and pretend Melissa wasn’t snickering under her breath every time he got flustered.

Still, the one time it did get too overwhelming, people not content to stare asking question over question he didn’t know how to answer, she cut in with a quick ”Hey, Ignotus, aren’t you supposed to be helping with the accounts?” and let him make his escape to the back room, so he supposed he couldn’t be too frustrated with her amusement at his expense.

When they finally closed for the lunch hour, Harry collapsed into a chair in the back, relieved, and let his head fall to the table, pillowed in his arms. Bernie let him have five minutes of just sitting in silence before he came over to sit by him.

“Remember to change your bandages,” he said, and Harry groaned, his arms muffling the sound.

Something thumped into the back of his head, and he looked up to where Melissa stood, grinning. Her eyes flicked down to the floor. She had hit him with a rolled-up magazine. No, he realized, picking it up – a catalogue. For Madam Malkin’s.

“I still owe you a birthday present, remember?” she said smugly. “Which means you still owe me a shopping trip. After we close for the day, don’t go sneaking off anywhere. Besides, you still need me to apparate you home. Wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the Ministry… again.”

Harry groaned again, more dramatically, and Bernie laughed. “Well, you young folks have fun. I can let you off a little early so you can get there before she packs up shop for the day.” Harry shot him a look of utter betrayal and his smile held a hint of mischief. “Besides, she’s right – you are running out of wearable robes, and then what will all your fans think of you?”

This last comment was enough, and Harry stood, heading for the bathroom. “I’m going to check my bandages, now, so you can tell Moody I’m doing what I’m supposed to!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Harry was reticent for the rest of their lunch break, and Melissa couldn’t help but try and needle him into some conversation. She thought it was too soon for him to be working – he was clearly still in a lot of pain – but it was just as obvious that he needed this. He wouldn’t have been able to stay in bed any longer. Better at work, she thought sardonically, than doing something stupid to escape bed rest.

She still thought he was weird. He obviously hadn’t turned out to be a criminal or anything, but he hadn’t yet explained anything about who he was or where he was from. He’d only ever confirmed who he wasn’t, and she found that unsatisfactory. Working for Bernie had always been a reassuring constant, since he’d hired her on when no one else would. Boring at times, and she had settled into a disinterested routine dealing with customers, but consistent. Then Bernie had spotted another person who needed help, desperately, and a job and a place – and it hadn’t hurt that Harry ‘Neville’ Ignotus had been so entranced by the books before his interview. And ever since he’d hired Harry, nothing had been normal, and Melissa’s curiosity, usually channeled into her Arithmancy studies at the front desk when there weren’t any customers, had a new target.

He was moving slowly when they went back to work, and she sent him to the back twice more to help Bernie with the accounting or the book orders. He was doing well enough at obeying Healers’ order, she supposed, when he seemed to remember that they were there at all. In those moments he forgot, bending to set a book on a shelf instead of levitating it carefully into place, she saw his carefully-hidden winces of pain. Somewhere, he’d learned to hide it, but the tension running up his shoulders and the tightening around his eyes gave it away.

They were busier today than they usually were, even for a pre-Hogwarts shopping day, even with all the people avoiding Diagon Alley because of the attack. And most of their customers weren’t customers at all, but gawkers, following the news article from the _Daily Prophet_ to try and catch a glimpse of the ‘Hero of Diagon Alley.’ And she had to admit she was a little worried that someone would slip into the crowd. For their own safety, she thought derisively, none of the people who’d been attacked had been named, but the reporters hadn’t thought twice about printing both Harry’s name and workplace for the world to see. She wasn’t sure which she was more worried about sneaking into the crowd in their shop – reporters or Death Eaters. At least if it was Death Eaters, it would be legal to hex them right back out the door.

Strangely enough, while Harry was doing his best to dodge all the attention, he seemed more resigned than shocked when he couldn’t manage to get away – though Melissa had to admit she found his awkwardness more entertaining than she probably should. At some point, the kid had learned to duel nearly as well as an Auror, and with more recklessness, but he’d apparently never learned to have a conversation like a normal person. His flailing for words when people came up to thank him had been the high point of her day, and a sharp “Can I help you?” from the counter had deterred many of the more persistent admirers.

The next family that came in was a couple of parents and two children, one closer to Melissa’s age, and one a little girl that was probably just starting Hogwarts. She beelined for the Hogwarts books, her father behind her, and then wandered off to find her brother behind the more interesting shelves. Her mother hardly even pretended to be shopping for books. Instead, she looked around, clearly trying to spot Harry. Melissa let out an obnoxious sigh from her seat at the desk near the door. Just at that moment, Harry came out from the back with the refills for the display of _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_ floating by his side.

“It’s you,” the woman said, staring.

“Yeah, that’s him, hero of Diagon Alley and all that,” Melissa commented from the counter. “So we’ve heard.”

“No, I mean – it was you.” She said, still talking to Harry. “You saved us, in Bexley. You saved my little girl. Thank you.” She reached out before Harry could react and wrapped him in a desperate hug. He froze, hands held out to the sides, and the books fell to the ground beside him before he awkwardly patted her on the back until she let go.

“Sorry – I’m sorry, that was – “ the woman started, flustered, a hint of color in her cheeks.

“Er, no, it’s fine, really –“

The moment was interrupted by the girl that rounded the corner of the bookshelves. She paused for a moment when she saw Harry, then barreled forward into the second hug he’d gotten in five minutes.

“Hi!” she said brightly, pulling away. “Do you remember me? I remember you! The Death Eaters attacked us and you fought them and it was awesome! But then the Aurors showed up and you passed out and we didn’t see you again, and they wouldn’t tell us anything. Are you okay? Were you hurt? Will you teach me to duel like you did?”

“Er – um –“ In the face of Death Eaters, Harry had acted without hesitation, running out to fight them. In the face of this small and persistent child, he was helpless, and he glanced desperately over toward Melissa for help. She was too busy laughing at him to comply.

“I’m Lucy,” she told him brightly. “Is your name Harry? The newspaper said it was. Are you-“

“Lucy.” The stream of words cut off for a moment, and then redirected to her father, who’d spoken the stern reminder.

“I promised I wouldn’t bother him, but I’m not bothering him, I just wanted to know. And you said that it was okay to come and thank him, because mum was going to, and I wanted to say thank you too, but – oops, I forgot to do that part!” Cheerfully turning away from her father again, she grinned at Harry. “Thank you!” She darted in for another hug.

Harry was rescued when she was suddenly pulled away by her brother, coming back out from the back of the store with a small pile of books tucked under his arm. With his other, he’d picked up his sister with the ease of long practice, swinging her up into the air where she grabbed on and flipped herself over his shoulder, hanging like a spider-monkey. Clinging to her brother’s arm, she flipped again to stare at Harry upside-down.

“I’m so sorry,” the mother said, “we didn’t mean to overwhelm you, coming at you all at once like that, but-“ She grasped for words, looking overcome with emotion. Everyone else in the store was staring. Melissa cleared her throat from behind the counter, loudly and pointedly, and most of the other customers jumped and went back to browsing under her narrow-eyed glare.

“Why don’t you all go talk in the back?” she said, directing the question at the family but looking pointedly at Harry. It wasn’t a question, and he seemed to pick up on that, shooting her a dirty look behind their backs.

“We really don’t mean to interrupt your day,” the mother said, “we just wanted to stop in and thank you, and see – well, you were so badly hurt that day –“

“Er – it’s fine,” Harry said, shifting from one foot to another, “I’m fine – I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, awkwardly but sincerely, and she beamed at him. “If you want – “ he motioned toward the door to the back, and they followed him.

A minute later, Bernie came out front, ostensibly to help Melissa with the influx of customers. He waved his wand absentmindedly, the pile of _Standard Book of Spells_ lifting themselves and shuffling into a pile, then drifting into place on the display case. When he’d greeted the regulars and checked around the shelves, he made his way over to Melissa and raised an eyebrow at her.

“What?” she snapped, more defensive than she’d meant to be.

“Nothing,” he said, smiling at her knowingly. “It’s just good to see you caring about the world again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, but she knew what he was talking about. He didn’t respond, but wandered off toward the table under the window where the book club was gathered. They made room for him and passed him a cup of tea while she scowled at him thunderously from the register. He ignored it with the ease of long practice, except to shoot her a beaming smile in return, and she turned her disgruntled attention back to the customers.

In the back, Harry stared at the family standing near Vee the book-sorter. They looked almost as uncomfortable as he did. After slightly too long of an awkward silence, he thrust a hand out with a little too much force.

“Er – I’m Harry.”

The father grinned, face lighting up with humor and making him look much less stern. “Yes, we know,” he said warmly. “We came to thank you. But you probably don’t know us. I’m Alphonsus Smith.” He took Harry’s hand and shook it. “Thank you.”

“Emilie,” his wife said, reaching out to shake Harry’s hand in turn. “And this is my son Dominic, and my daughter –“

“Lucy!” Lucy interjected, nearly shouting, staring up at him from where her brother held her hand with an incorrigible grin.

“You look well?” Harry said, voice trailing upwards in a question as he remembered the last time he’d seen them – laying on the ground, Emilie clutching Lucy close as she cried and shook with pain from the Cruciatus. He pushed the image out of his mind, focusing on this moment – they were here, now, and alive.

“Yes,” Emilie said, looking as if she knew exactly where his mind had gone. “Thanks to you. The paper said you were still hurt when Diagon was attacked last week. Are you well?”

“I’m –“ _fine_ , he meant to say, but the word wouldn’t come out. His throat worked around the sound, but he’d spent too much time lately telling everyone he was fine, and he was starting to realize even he didn’t believe it.

She didn’t look like Mrs. Weasley, too tall and willowy, too blond, too poised, but she looked at him like only Mrs. Weasley had ever looked at him, like it was written on his face that he wasn’t used to being mothered, didn’t know what to do with her concern – he had always been fine, looking out for himself and relying on his friends. He missed Ron and Hermione with a constant ache, but now that ache felt present and real and gutting The memories lingered, almost tangible, of dinner at the Burrow, with Mrs. Weasley’s cooking and hugs, Fred and George’s jokes (just George now, Fred was gone, but so was Harry - would they even ever know?), and Mr. Weasley asking him excitedly about ekeltricity and rubber ducks. And something of that must have shown – on his face, in his posture – because suddenly he was being swept into another hug, and he didn’t know what to do.

“You saved our lives,” she whispered into his ear, voice choked with gratitude. “You saved my little girl. How can we ever repay you?”

“Maybe let him breathe, mum?” Dominic said, the first comment he’d made since they’d come into the store, and Harry let out a huff of air in the closest thing to a laugh he could manage at the moment.

“Yes, of course,” Emilie said, and let go again, stepping back. Harry’s face was red, and he could feel it burning. Mercifully, none of them commented on his obvious discomposure. Instead, Dominic offered him a grin and a clap on the shoulder. Harry realized he looked familiar, and it took him a minute to place the name. But Smith – Dominic and his father looked a lot like Zacharias Smith, from his year at Hogwarts. Could this be his family?

“You didn’t go to Hogwarts, did you?” Dominic asked, looking at him curiously. “We would’ve been there at the same time, I think - I’m twenty-one this year.”

“Er, no.” Harry said. “I didn’t. But I would’ve been just a few years behind you if I had. I’m eighteen.”

They stared at him. He fidgeted under their surprised regard. Only Lucy seemed oblivious to the moment, enraptured by watching Vee stack books.

“Well, we appreciate what you did, son, stepping in like that.” Alphonsus Smith said sincerely. “You saved my family – and you saved a lot of other lives last week, too, from what I hear. We’ll let you get back to work, but if you ever need anything, please, ask. We are in your debt.”

They headed back out to the front of the shop, Dominic catching Lucy’s hand and tugging her along. Harry watched them go, then sat down suddenly, exhausted. Minutes after they’d gone, Bernie returned to the back. He only needed one look at Harry before he had a hand on Harry’s shoulder, urging him into the office, and then onto the couch.

“You have the rest of the day off,” he said firmly. Harry didn’t even try to argue. He sat on the couch and brought out _A History of Time Travel_ , opening it to his last-marked spot. It was due back at the library soon, but he wasn’t any closer to figuring out how to get home. The words made his head pound, swimming across the page. He realized he’d read the same sentence for the eighth time and let the book fall closed, putting his head in his hands. The memory of Scrimgeour overlaid every page, every time they had met, every conversation they’d had. The future had been changed already, and he didn’t know how to fix it. Even if he could start making sense of beginning theories, then what? It wasn’t beginners that made time turners or experimented in the Department of Mysteries.

He had slid slowly down the couch, eyes slipping shut, and his last thought before he drifted into sleep was that he needed to talk to Nicolas Flamel.

He woke to Melissa’s prodding of his shoulder. Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he peered blearily up at her.

“You owe me a shopping trip, remember?”

Harry groaned, loudly. She smacked his arm. “Come on, it’s your birthday present. I think what you mean is thank you.”

Harry blinked at her, incredulous, brain still fuzzy from sleep, and she snorted. “Alright, maybe that was too much to ask. I’ll settle for you getting up and coming with me to Madam Malkin’s.”

“Ah, the hopeless case,” Madam Malkin said when they entered. “I remember you. Tell me, young man, have you learned the difference between thrift shop robes and tailored robes yet? Or at least learned what colors might suit your complexion or preference?”

“Three new sets,” Melissa said, cutting in before Harry could say a word. “Use your judgment, not his – they’re his late birthday present and I’m paying, so he doesn’t get an opinion.”

“Hey!” Harry protested. “They’re for me, aren’t they?”

“Well?” Melissa asked. “Do you have an opinion?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Thought so,” she said.

Madam Malkin tugged him toward the back. “Now, I have your measurements on file from last time, so this shouldn’t take as long.”

Melissa glanced at Harry, showing uncertainty for the first time in their acquaintance. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again. Harry stepped in to say it before she had to decide what she should say. “They might have changed.”

“It’s only been two weeks,” Madam Malkin said, surprised.

“It’s been a difficult two weeks,” he said, and offered nothing more.

Her measuring tape whipped out and began stretching along his body. When it twisted around his torso and cinched to measure his waist, he couldn’t hold back a choked-off grunt and a grimace. Madam Malkin immediately flicked her wrist, and the measuring tape loosened and then flew back to her hand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-“ she began, and then froze. Her eyes flicked from his side, where bandages bulked up his form a little under the robe, to his face and neck, where traces of healing burns had left marks, and then to his face. “You’re Harry Ignotus,” she said, dumbfounded.

Harry’s shoulders jerked upward in an automatic reaction, defensive and closed-off. “Er.” he said eloquently.

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Say it a little louder, the whole shop might not have heard you,” she said sarcastically, and Madam Malkin flushed.

“Well,” she said, aiming for a normal tone but not quite succeeding, “You haven’t changed sizes too much, but you look like you ought to have a little more bulk when you’ve finished healing – I imagine you haven’t been as hungry or as active as usual. I’ll make them a little big, and when you feel you’re recovered, come back in and I’ll adjust them for you. No charge for that,” she said. “It’s the least I can do. Now. What style will suit today?”

Harry stared as blankly at the catalogue as he had the last two times he’d seen it, and Melissa and Madam Malkin instead began debating styles and colors while he waited to the side, happy to be ignored. A man came up beside him, settling in to look at the two of them. “Better them than us, huh?” he said conspiratorially.

“Yeah,” Harry said, emphatically.

“Hey, so I couldn’t help but hear- are you really Harry Ignotus?”

“Yeah,” Harry said again, this time wary. The man caught his tone and grinned disarmingly.

“Hey, I’m not here to hassle you about autographs or anything. I just wanted to talk for a minute, maybe give you my card. My name’s Duncan, I’m a reporter with-“

“The _Daily Prophet_ ,” Harry said, suddenly remembering the name from the article earlier that day.

“You’ve read my column,” the man said, delighted.

“No,” Harry said. “My coworkers showed me the article this morning.”

“Ah,” Duncan paused, as if waiting for something. When Harry didn’t say anything more, he prodded gently. “So? How about it?”

“How about what?” Harry asked, glancing back over to where Melissa and Madam Malkin had moved to look at fabrics, too far away to hear.

“A couple of questions, maybe keep me in mind if you want to do an interview?”

“I’d rather not,” Harry said, and Duncan nodded.

“Fair enough, I can understand that,” he said. “But would you take a card? Just in case.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a business card, offering it out to Harry. Harry regarded it for a moment, considering. Duncan laughed. “It won’t bite,” he promised.

Harry took the card and stuck it in his own pocket. “Nice to meet you,” he said with finality, “but I need to go.”

“Sure, sure.” Duncan said. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Harry walked toward Melissa and Madam Malkin, slightly too fast to be casual. When he reached them, he muttered to Melissa, “I’m going to wait outside,” and took off before she could reply, ducking through the displays to the back door. He burst into the fresh air and ducked around the corner, just out of sight. A few moments later, Melissa came after him.

“She’ll send the robes to the shop when they’re done,” she told him. “You alright?” She was trying to be as casually unconcerned as usual, but her eyes fixed on his expression with worry.

“Fine. There was a reporter in there, I just needed…” he trailed off, not sure how to say it. “Look, Melissa, can you do me a favor?”

“I thought I was,” she replied, but let the teasing drop to respond seriously. “What do you need?”

“I need to get in touch with Nicolas Flamel. He said I could just leave a card with the library desk if I wanted to talk with him again. Do you think you could swing by and drop it off for me before you go home? I don’t think I can be gawked at any more today.”

“I’m taking you home, remember? You don’t have an apparition license yet.”

“I can apparate just fine,” Harry argued. “I’ve been doing it just fine this far.”

“But you’re not allowed to,” she said. “You sure you won’t get arrested apparating home against Auror Moody’s instructions?”

“Yes,” Harry said, exasperated with everyone’s worry. “I can apparate. Please, can you drop off the notes?”

She looked at him for a few more seconds, then folded her arms. “Sure, whatever. Not my problem if you get in trouble with your Auror babysitter. Give me the note.”

He scribbled it down on a scrap of parchment and handed it to her. “Thanks, Melissa,” he said, and she grinned. “Don’t get caught,” she said. “Or do. Then I can say I told you so.”

He rolled his eyes but gave her a tired grin back. “Thanks,” he said again, and with a _crack_ he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been FOREVER. But good news? Chapter 14 is basically done (I binge-wrote both over the weekend... once I started I just couldn't stop!) Becky has it now, and when I get it back with her comments and get it edited, that one will go up as well! So to make up for the long break, you'll get the next one soon.
> 
> Thanks for all the support! I can't believe the response this fic has gotten. I love every one of your comments and I appreciate them so much!


	14. Chapter 14

Harry twisted and thrashed under the smothering weight of the blankets, trying vainly to throw them off. His face was streaked with sweat and tight as if in pain, choked cries escaping from his clenched jaw. The noises had woken Moody, and brought him down the hall to Harry’s room, and now he hovered over the fitfully sleeping young man, hesitating.

“Damn it, I’m not meant for this kind of thing,” he grumbled to himself, then said more loudly, “Kid. Kid, wake up.” Harry didn’t respond, caught in the grasp of his nightmare, and Moody sighed heavily, fixing the bundled figure with a halfhearted glare that he couldn’t seem to make himself really mean.

“Kid.” He said again, and this time reached over to lay a hand on Harry’s shoulder, shaking gently. “It’s just a dream. Wake up.”

Harry’s shoulder jerked violently under his hand as the kid threw himself backwards, breath coming in heavy pants, eyes disoriented and pupils blown wide in fear. His hand flung to the side, grasping his wand, and Moody stood still, eyeing the wand tip clutched in a shaking hand but still aimed unerringly at his heart, and waited for Harry to recognize him.

After a moment, the shaking slowed, and Harry’s arm dropped. His eyes had cleared, and they were seeing the real world again – Moody, in front of him, the bedcovers where they were thrown in disarray, hanging half off the bedframe. Himself, backed against the wall and ready to fight. Moody watched the realization hit, and was ready for it when Harry, sagged, exhausted, all his adrenaline-fueled energy spent. He crumpled, body listing, and Moody caught him with a supporting arm, moving to sit on the bed with Harry’s smaller form collapsed into his side.

They sat like that for a moment as Harry’s breath slowed, steadying. His shaking calmed, then stopped. Moody could feel him take a few deep breaths, then gather himself and begin to pull away. For a moment, Moody felt the urge to pull him back, to keep him there, tucked safely into his side, just a little longer. But he ignored it, and the urge passed. Moody dismissed it as temporary insanity. He didn’t do hugs. Harry moved to sit back against the headboard, curled into himself. A slight hint of color stained his cheeks. His eyes fixed determinedly away from Moody, avoiding eye contact.

“Kid-“

“I’m fine,” Harry said instantly in an automatic response.

“You want to try that one again?” Moody asked.

Harry almost said it again just to be contrary but settled on saying nothing at all. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t okay.

“Stubborn,” Moody muttered under his breath.

“You’re one to talk,” Harry shot back instantly, looking surprised at his own daring.

Moody glared at him, but his lips twitched, betraying him.

“Been meaning to ask,” he said. “We’ve got a conversation we need to have.”

“At-“ Harry looked up to glance at the clock, “three in the morning?” His voice was still a little hoarse, but it was steadier than before.

“You got a better time in mind?” Moody asked him. Harry shrugged, but didn’t respond.

Moody sighed, then stood up. “Come on. You’re not getting back to sleep after that nightmare. I’ve had enough of my own to know.”

Harry stood as well, pulling the blanket around himself for warmth. Moody headed to the stairs, Harry behind him, shoulders squared and face set as if he were walking to a battlefield and not a kitchen. When he reached the bottom, Moody jerked a lopsided chair out from the table for Harry before walking to the cupboards. He rummaged around, the hinges protesting, until he found an old beaten-down kettle, full of scratches and dings, and put it on the stove. A mutter, and the burner beneath it lit with bluebell flames. Harry was seated at the table, absently toying with the empty mug in front of him, and Moody moved to join him.

“Don’t suppose you want to talk about it,” Moody grunted. Harry didn’t look up, but continued to spin the mug, around and around against the tabletop. “Yeah,” Moody said. “You’re not much one for opening up, huh, kid? And I’m not exactly one for heart-to-hearts. But I’ve got some ideas what it could’ve been about, and none of them are good.”

No response except a slight tensing in Harry’s shoulders. Moody kept an eye on them. They’d be his tell, for when he started to hit close to home. He hated to get answers this way, especially since this wasn’t an interrogation, but he was too good of an investigator to let it go when something had happened to this kid in the past. At the very least, he could make sure whatever it was didn’t show up to cause trouble again.

“Alright. You might not remember, but when you were in the hospital, you filled out a medical history form.” The shoulders tensed a little more. “Filled it out badly, I might add. You really think anyone was going to believe that all the trouble you ever found was a bludger when you were twelve? Come on, kid. None of us are that stupid.”

Harry said nothing. Moody let that sit a minute, then continued. “If we’re being fair, you were probably a little out of it at the time – though you seemed lucid enough when you were telling me what happened. So do you want to try this again? Because I think Healer Blackburn might appreciate an updated medical history next time he comes to check you out. And,” he said pointedly after another silence had elapsed, “I would appreciate an updated history of what kind of trouble you’re running from so I can make sure it gets taken care of. That is my job.”

“It’s three in the morning,” Harry snapped at him, head coming up. He was finally talking again, at least. “It’s three in the morning and I just woke up from a nightmare and I want to get some sleep before I go into work tomorrow, so if you don’t mind, _Auror Moody_ , can we save this interrogation for when I’ve actually done something wrong?” His voice had risen to a shout, but Moody had questioned a lot of people in his life, and he could hear the rawness behind it.

“No, we can’t.” Moody snapped back. He wasn’t going to let up now, when if he pushed just a little, he might be able to get Harry to let down his walls. Harry glowered at him. It was better by far than the shellshocked and hurting look he’d had when he’d first woken from his nightmare, in Moody’s opinion. “You know why we can’t? Because I saw what you didn’t finish writing, on that medical history, and I saw the healer’s notes, and those aren’t things that just happen.”

He laid a copy of the healer’s report on the table. “You started writing something, then scribbled it out. Bite in your right – what, arm? leg? Arm, probably, since the healer noticed scarring there. And something else happened to that arm too, judging by the scars. You wrote Cruc-, then scribbled that one out too. Cruciatus exposure, I’m betting– there’s not too many words that start that way. Lestrange wasn’t the first time someone used an Unforgivable on you, and that’s a lifelong sentence in Azkaban, so even if you think you’re protecting your own past, you’re also protecting whatever bastard did this before – and they could do it again. Besides that, marks on your hand, shaped like words, though the scars have faded together enough for the words to be difficult to make out.” Harry’s left hand involuntarily went to his right, and his shoulders were nearly up to his ears. His jaw had clenched so tightly Moody could see the strain, and his eyes, instead of staring at the mug, were fixed challengingly on Moody’s own.

“That’s not-“ Harry started, and Moody cut him off.

“I’m not done!” he barked, and Harry subsided, temporarily, into mutinous silence.

“Scarring on your forehead,” he continued, and Harry flinched a little, though his gaze didn’t waver, “and on your chest. Signs of broken and regrown bones, repeated spell trauma – if they had been accidents, or something innocuous, you could have written them down. But you didn’t, because you didn’t want to answer questions about them.”

“No!” Harry shouted, surging to his feet. “No, I don’t want to answer questions about them, that’s why I didn’t write them down. Yes, there are things I’m not talking about. Because I don’t want to talk about it! So why are you trying to make me? Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Harry was breathing heavily now, and he leaned over, bracing a hand on the table. He was clearly in pain, but when Moody moved toward him to offer a hand, he tensed and shied away. They stared at each other in a strained and silent impasse until it was broken by the whistle of the battered old kettle.

Moody turned away and stomped over to the stove, extinguishing the flame with a sharp jab of his wand and stomping back to the table, where Harry was sinking down into his chair He took Harry’s mug, filled it, and shoved it over to him.

“Drink,” he said, and Harry scowled at him as he sipped at the tea, swearing when it scalded his tongue.

They sat in uncomfortable silence a little longer, and Moody watched as Harry’s shoulders slowly sank back down, his anger fading into exhaustion. When he figured the kid had calmed down enough, he let out a breath. “Look, Harry, I’m not asking you to tell me who you were before. I figure getting you your new name, officially, might’ve done something to prove that. But you can tell me a little bit about what you’re running from and let someone help you deal with it for once.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, but he didn’t say it with any conviction. Moody sensed weakness, with the same instinct he used when interrogating suspects.

“Which one was your nightmare about?” he asked.

Harry let out a long breath, slumping in his chair. “The Unforgivables,” he said. Every line of his body looked tired, and his eyes were haunted and far away.

“More than one of them?” Moody asked, quieter and more gently than before.

“Yeah,” Harry said roughly, and took a gulp of tea.

“And whoever did it?” Moody asked. “Before Lestrange?”

“Dead,” Harry said, and stared blankly into his tea. Moody nodded, though he wasn’t sure whether Harry even registered the motion.

“Good,” he said, and Harry’s eyes flickered back up to him for a moment.

“The arm?” he asked. Harry shrugged. “He’s dead too. Everyone from before – they’re all gone, okay, it’s over. There’s no one to hunt down, or find, or stop-“

“Because you did that already?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and this time it sounded defeated. His shoulders curled inward, and he looked eighteen, for one of the first times since Moody had met him, actually eighteen. A kid who should’ve been worried about getting his first job and moving out of his parents’ house. But instead, he’d already faced everyone who’d hurt him and survived, and come out the other side – battered, broken, tired, but still alive. And now he didn’t know what came next.

Moody knew that feeling. His whole life was the Auror Office, and when he was forced to look outside it, he couldn’t let it go – he joined the Order, and worked with Dumbledore hunting Death Eaters, and he didn’t know how to go back to a normal civilian life. But he’d chosen this life. Even if everything Harry faced had happened in the last few years, and there was no way that was true, it wasn’t a choice he should’ve ever had to make. But even if it had been made for him, he was in the same place Moody was, now. He didn’t know how to walk away and have a normal life. Even if he spent the rest of his life working at that bookstore, the memories would always follow him.

“Kid, look at me,” he said, and he sounded old and tired, even to his own ears. Harry looked up and met his eyes. “You did what you had to do,” Moody told him. “But it doesn’t go away just because it’s over. I don’t need to know who did it or who you were before for you to tell me what happened. If you don’t ever talk about it, it’ll just keep festering – and showing up in your dreams.”

Harry swallowed, and looked down. “It was three years ago,” he said, and Moody paused.

“What was?”

“My dream, it was about – what happened three years ago.”

Moody was silent, waiting for him to go on.

“There was a dark wizard. He believed – a lot of the stuff Voldemort does. But he was after me, he wanted-“ Harry stopped, then started again. “He kidnapped me. And said he was going to make me duel him. Used the Imperius to try to- to make me bow to him, like it was a proper duel, and not-“ He stopped again. When he continued, his voice was barely louder than a whisper, and Moody had to strain to hear it. “He used the Cruciatus, and It felt like it went on forever. I’d never felt it before, I’d never felt anything like that before. I only got away because he was toying with me – he could’ve killed me, if he’d just done it, but he wanted-“ This time, when he stopped, the words didn’t come again. He sat, staring down at his hands, and went quiet. Moody tried to find something to say, but he didn’t have the words. He’d counseled Aurors through missions gone wrong before, but somehow, this didn’t feel anything close to the same thing. Eventually, he said nothing, until Harry spoke again.

“I used it,” he admitted quietly, not looking at Moody. “The Cruciatus Curse.” Moody forced himself not to react. If he said the wrong thing now, Harry would never open up to him again. “I tried to, anyway. My godfather looked after me, for a little while. He was all I had. And when he was killed, I tried to use it on the witch that did it, but it didn’t work. She said I didn’t mean it enough. But then I used it again, on a Death Eater, last year when they-“ he hesitated again, and then said. “It didn’t work then, not the way it did when they did it to me. But it didn’t … not work, either. And I don’t know what that makes me.”

If he hadn’t known what to say to the first admission, he didn’t have any idea what to do about the second. Of all the things he might’ve expected to hear from the kid, this had never even crossed his mind.

“That’s a lifelong sentence in Azkaban,” Harry said flatly, carefully, saying Moody’s own words back to him. “Are you going to arrest me now?”

“No,” Moody told him, firmly. “I’m not. I’m going to give you your potions, and you’re going to go back to sleep and not argue with me when I owl Blotts to let him know you’re not coming in today. And then, when you wake up again, we’re going to tie you to the house wards. You’re healed enough for that, now.”

“I just told you I cast an Unforgivable,” Harry said, staring at him like he was crazy. “And you want to let me into your house? After everything Auror Longbottom said about what that means, to tie me to your wards, you still want to do it?”

“Did I look like I was joking?” Moody snapped sarcastically but sighed when Harry just looked at him with the same disbelief. “You told me that you had every reason to hate that witch, that the Death Eaters had come after you, and that after everything they’d done to you, everything you’d been through, you still didn’t hate them enough to want to torture them. That even though you tried, it didn’t work, because you couldn’t bring yourself to mean it.”

“So you’re not arresting me because I couldn’t cast it well enough?” Harry looked incredulous.

Moody sighed. “Did you know Crouch has pushed for allowing the use of the Unforgivables against Voldemort and his Death Eaters? The Minister is inclined to let it pass. But I’ve been pushing back against it, and so has Madam Zdenek, our Head Auror. Do you know why?”

“No,” Harry said. His disbelief had been replaced with confusion. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because it would work,” Moody said harshly. “If I used it, it would work. If Zdenek used it, if Crouch used it – I think even most of my Aurors would be capable. The only thing stopping us from using them is that it’s illegal to try. You tried to use it, but what stopped you wasn’t the law – it was yourself.”

Harry stared at him, and Moody looked away. The silence that fell this time was much less charged, but still heavy. Finally, Moody shoved his seat back and stood up. “Right, that’s enough of that. If anything else comes up and you need to talk-“

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Thanks.”

“Right then,” Moody said. “Now, if you’re done trying to get yourself arrested, go take your potions and go back to sleep.”

Harry snorted a little in amusement, the tiny smile on his face at that comment more than Moody had hoped to get out of him today, and obliged.

Harry didn’t wake until noon. When he did finally open his eyes, he was surprised to find he hadn’t dreamed. He hadn’t been allowed to take dreamless sleep for fear of a growing reliance, which was why the first half of the night had gone so poorly. But clearly, the talk with Moody had helped.

He’d been tired when they talked, and he had a moment of panic when he couldn’t remember what he’d said – and if he’d said anything he shouldn’t have. _Besides admitting to casting a spell that could get you a life sentence in Azkaban_ , he thought, the implications of what he’d admitted to sinking in. The night before, he’d been too tired and shaken to think it through, but now the memory came back vividly. He had confessed to an Auror that he’d cast the Cruciatus Curse. At least it had turned out as well as it could have. It was perplexing, though. He wouldn’t have thought Moody, of all people, would have been able to turn a blind eye. But what he’d said about the Unforgivables – did it really make that much of a difference?

At least he was mostly certain he hadn’t confessed anything about the time travel.

When he got up and made his way downstairs, there was a note waiting for him on the kitchen table, in Moody’s blocky scrawl: _Gone into Ministry. Wards when I get back. Don’t do anything stupid and get yourself cursed – again._

“Ha, ha,” Harry told the note sarcastically. It responded by crumpling up and flying to the trash bin. Harry clattered around in the kitchen until he found toast, jam, and tea. Bereft of other plans for the day, since Moody had told Bernie he wasn’t coming in, he opened one of the books Bernie had gotten him for his birthday: _A Field Guide to Cursebreaking_.

The leather-bound journal turned out to be a handwritten account by a cursebreaker who’d traveled all across the world. When he opened it, a name was scrawled in the front cover: Priyanka Dalal. There were sections on Mayan and Aztec curses, Egyptian wards and tombs, Indus River magic traces from ancient civilizations, and more. The author herself was apparently still living, now retired but occasionally teaching courses for advanced cursebreaking methods. The journal had notes about the manuscript itself, and Harry realized in shock that what he was holding wasn’t a copy of the journal – it was the original.

The entries were fascinating, reading half as a narrative and half as a manual. They included sketches, detailed descriptions of hexes and counterhexes, wardings and sigils and ancient runic inscriptions, complete with translations, and occasionally thoughts on original spellwork. It reminded him in part of the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook, but to a much greater extent. And the narratives read like something out of an adventure book.

_Found an ancient ruin in the jungle today, guarded by what seems to be a cousin of the basilisk. We documented the creature as best we could, but judged it best not to get close enough for samples. I’ve marked the location should I decide to return, perhaps with Newt Scamander, if I can talk him into coming along. In the meantime, we managed to lure it out long enough for us to circle around. It was nesting on a trapdoor, built into the jungle earth itself. There is an entire below-ground complex; only careful warding seems to keep it from flooding in the rainfall. We proceeded cautiously, once inside; I judged the danger of possible traps less than the danger of spending more time than necessary waiting for the serpent-guard to return. It was a gamble that paid off. Once in, we descended by rope – any lingering ambient magic could react with spells, so it’s best to be cautious until we can establish a base camp and some groundwork on what magic still holds strong. Sometimes the muggle way is best._

Lost in the text, the hours passed swiftly. Mid-afternoon, an owl arrived, hovering outside the window. It didn’t fly in to tap on the glass, and Harry figured even the owls had learned that Moody’s paranoia had consequences. It wasn’t until he opened the window wide enough for it to fly in without brushing against the house that it entered, landing skittishly atop the countertop and sticking out its leg. It was from Nicolas Flamel, letting Harry know he’d gotten his note, and he’d be happy to set up another meeting to discuss time travel again. Perhaps at the library, any evening in the next few days? This evening Moody planned to key him into the wards, so Harry hastily scribbled back a reply: _8pm tomorrow_.

He passed the rest of the afternoon with reading, anxious about the evening. What if Moody had changed his mind? Not only about the wards, but about arresting Harry? Or what if he’d decided to kick him out, that he didn’t want a Dark Wizard in his house? He wouldn’t be any worse off than he’d been before, but he could admit to himself that living in the woods in a transfigured tent was not a good situation. And what if it didn’t work, and Harry’s access to the wards left them vulnerable? He knew he’d be a target for Death Eaters. His actions in Bexley and Diagon had ensured it, and the article in the _Prophet_ had told everyone where to find him. If he could be traced home from the bookstore, Moody could get caught up in it because of him-

He realized then that he’d thought of this place as home. That he’d started to grow attached – to Moody, and Bernie, and Melissa, and Frank – and to the life he was building here. But he still desperately missed his own friends – even if he didn’t think he missed the life he’d had planned after Hogwarts. He looked down at the cursebreaking book again. He was so tired of fighting. Maybe, when this was all over, he didn’t want to be an Auror after all.

He was jolted from his thoughts when the door opened, and Moody stumped in, wooden leg clunking on the steps. As he entered, Moody scowled darkly at him where he sat on the couch reading. Harry tensed, wondering for a second what he’d done wrong, before Moody was shouting, “Constant Vigilance!” He relaxed and rolled his eyes.

“I saw that,” Moody griped. “How do you know I’m me? And why weren’t you prepared in case someone else came through that door? You should at least have had your wand out, lad, just in case-“

“Isn’t the point of tying me into the wards that anyone who isn’t you can’t get in?” Harry interrupted him to ask.

Moody stared at him, and Harry stared back. Finally, Moody gave up and huffed, muttering under his breath. “Wards can fail, and then what? Will you hope for the best? Or get caught off guard and hexed into tomorrow?”

Harry put his book down, standing and stretching. Moody jerked his head toward the door. “Come on. Bring the knife and ward stone. We’ll have to ground your wards into the cornerstone of the property.”

They walked outside, and Moody led him to a corner of the house. He raised his wand in an arc and the earth from the corner followed, unburying the foundations of the building. When he brought his arm down, the dirt made a small, neat pile besides the hole. Buried underneath, laid into the wall, was a small stone that looked like the one he’d given Harry.

“That’s a wardstone?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” Moody grunted, concentrating on what he was doing. He traced his wand around the stone, and it glowed softly, pulsing. Harry could almost feel something, the way he’d learned to feel wards when he, Ron, and Hermione were on the run, but it felt like it was just on the edge of his awareness. A feathery-light brush against his skin, a shimmer in the corner of his eye that he could sense but never quite see.

“Is that-“ Harry said turning his head as if to chase the feeling. Moody watched him with a sharp eye.

“You can sense it?”

“There’s something, but I can’t quite tell what. When I cast a ward, I can sort of feel the line of magic, but this isn’t as solid.”

“Because it’s not yours,” Moody said bluntly. “Not yet. But once you’re tied in, you should be able to feel this one, too, if you can feel your own. I wouldn’t have expected you to know how to do that – but I suppose at this point I should just expect you to surprise me.”

Abruptly, Harry remembered Dumbledore in the cave, tracing his hand over the rock and looking for traces of Tom Riddle’s magic. Was he learning to feel magic, the way Dumbledore had? He shivered, though the night wasn’t cold. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, at least not until he could control it. He had felt something of Bellatrix Lestrange’s magic when she’d cast Fiendfyre, though he had thought he’d been imagining things, in the heat of the flames and the stress of the moment; it had been sickening. But it made sense – Dumbledore had to have been doing something to find the traces of Voldemort’s spells. And suddenly, some of the lines in the cursebreaking book made sense too. Priyanka had written about sensing curses and tracing ward lines. She must have had the same ability.

“Right,” Moody said. “Pull out your stone.” Harry did. “This is your stone, and it’s going to connect you to mine – Longbottom told you this is similar to magical adoption in some ways. That’s because it’s going to combine your magic with mine, your warding with mine – link us as the same family that’s living here. When you’ve keyed your stone to you, I’ll key it to the wards by adding it to mine.”

“How do I key it?” Harry asked. Moody gave the small silver knife a significant glance, and Harry grimaced.

“Just a couple drops of blood is plenty,” he said. Harry made a shallow cut on the top of his finger and wiped it on the stone. The stone flared, and the blood was gone. In its place was a runic design that Harry couldn’t place. When he looked at Moody’s ward stone again, there was a similar design in the same style. Moody took the stone, and then looked back up at Harry.

“Cast a spell on the stone – one that you can keep casting. You’ll need your magic going into it the whole time for this to work. Don’t stop casting until I tell you. The stronger the spell, the better.”

Harry thought for a moment, grasping around for a spell that he could use. A strong spell.

“Expecto Patronum!” he shouted, and focused on the stone. Prongs burst forth from the end of his wand in a brilliant flare of light, galloping at the stone and then, somehow, into it. He poured all his energy into it, keeping an image at the forefront of his mind, a happy memory, one that he would always have now to hold onto that he would never have dreamed he’d get the chance to see.

His parents, sitting together at a café in Diagon Alley. His mother laughing while his father flung his hands in wild gestures, talking enthusiastically. Watching them lean in toward each other, happy and together and alive, as he went into work at the bookstore. He brought that memory to his mind and held it close, feeling all the bittersweet joy and love and desperate longing, and fed it into his Patronus. The stone glowed brighter, until Prongs was barely contained within it and it shone with brilliant light, a beacon illuminating the yard, the street, and the skies.

Moody swore under his breath as he stared at it, eyes gone wide with shock. Then he jolted into action, realizing the strain this was putting on Harry, still healing from the last few weeks. He lifted the stone, and pressed it against the one that was already there. He raised his wand with his other hand and traced it over them, intoning a long, chanted invocation under his breath. Slowly, the gleam of his stone mixed with the brilliance of Harry’s, and the brilliant gleam from Harry’s stone began to meld together with the soft glow from Moody’s, their two lights blending into one. Harry’s wardstone shimmered, almost liquid, melting into the house's foundation. The surface rippled, then went smooth, and one large stone stood instead of two, bearing both runic marks.

“Let it go, kid,” Moody said, and Harry ended the spell. The light faded.

“I can feel it,” Harry said, a little dazed. Instead of hovering on the edge of his awareness, it was like the heat of a fire or the light of the sun, and he could have traced it without looking. There was a buzzing, or a humming, or something that he couldn’t quite name, and he could feel it rising up around them, following the property line, warm and protective and safe. It felt like home.

“I can feel the wards,” Harry said again. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. In the corner of his eyes he could still see the light of Prongs, and feel his familiar presence guarding him. “They’re beautiful,” he said, reaching out a hand as if to trace them. His brow furrowed when his hand met nothing but air.

Then he collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say chapter 14 was pretty much done! I think this is my fastest ever update. Chapter 15 has a ways to go yet, but... holy cow. I can't believe there's only one chapter left!
> 
> On that note, if you're enjoying the story and want to keep following, make sure you sub to the series and not just the story because there will be a sequel!
> 
> See you next time :)


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